


In a dark time, the eye begins to see

by imsfire



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Wars Setting, Angst, Angst and Feels, Cassian is an artist, Cassian wants to be apolitical, Eventual Smut, F/M, I promise you there is going to be a happy ending eventually, Minor Original Character(s), Rogue One AU, Slow Burn, affiliations are similar but no-one is in quite the same place to begin with, but finds he cannot be, despite all the angst, eventual smut tag is for chapter 12, really rather a lot of angst and feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-09-22 05:01:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 43
Words: 100,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9584645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imsfire/pseuds/imsfire
Summary: The painter loves only his work and he makes it in innocence, and in ignorance.  Jyn is a citizen of a colder, more dangerous world, and she will have to drag him into it, willing or unwilling.  She’s going to have to open those brown eyes of his, and force him to see things that are not beautiful at all, things hidden in plain sight in his sunshiny world of loveliness...





	1. Chapter 1

He stands outside the main entrance of the Museum, staring at the sunlight in the trees opposite. How incredibly beautiful they are, green-gold and shimmering in the light and the breeze. There’s a quoriol bird singing in one, mellow long notes descending and ascending the scale. The city air smells sweeter than he remembers it ever doing before. He got the commission. He’s won. He goes down the wide stone steps walking lightly as a falling leaf. All the way home, the long ride on the city-trans and the long walk at the end of it, he is humming with happiness. 

He knows he ought to eat; ought to eat properly, to make up for that skimped panicky breakfast at dawn. Pretty soon he’ll have enough money to eat really well every day. No more hasty mouthfuls of stale bread. No more fry-ups of dubious offal; no more bruised fruit or vinegar-sharp wine. He ought to celebrate.

He feels light as air, as helium, feels as though he needs to keep touching things to stay at ground level. He goes into the studio and walks round it slowly, touching each wall in turn, his fingertips brushing between the rows of drawings and paintings; runs his hands along the rack of canvases, the boxes of paints. Takes hold of the neck of his easel and stands beaming at it. He is being an idiot, he knows. He can’t remember when he’s last been so happy.

He, skinny shabby unknown Cassian Andor, hungry, penniless immigrant Cassian Andor, has won the Annual Memorial Commission of the Imperial Fine Art Museum of Corellia. 

It’s the biggest break-through of his career. Not only has he won, but Museum Director Krennic, no less, one of the most powerful patrons in the entire Imperial art world, has shaken him by the hand and promised his support. 

Director Krennic loves his work. He is a made man.

There’s a piece of yesterday’s bread portion on the shelf, beside the jars of solvent and paint-oil. He picks it up and chews on it absently, looking around. His hands crave work to do. A freshly-primed canvas finds its way onto the easel and he opens the nearest box of paints, pulls brushes from a drawer. His heart is full of air; but colour, a universe of colour, will bring him down to the ground again. All the rich glory of it, forever his, forever new. 

He’ll paint this afternoon. He can celebrate later.

 

**

 

“You kriffer!” shouts Tivik. “You gall-blasting kriffing kriffer! You bloody did it!”

He was already drunk when Cassian arrived at the Bar Momus, and is doing his best to get Cassian drunk too, as fast as is humanly possible. Which means pretty fast, since Tiv is already onto the hard sugar-liquor and he’s not used to that, let alone to three glasses in rapid succession on an empty stomach.

“I ought to eat!” he says, laughing. “Not drink!”

His glass is refilled and shoved back into his hand. “Nah, you need to drink!”

The bar is a warm nest of iridescent lights and polished tables; mosaic, glass and petrified wood, comfortable padded benches and gleaming mirrors. Cushions and drapes are worked with gold and glass beads that glimmer in every dark corner. The recorded music is soft and jazzy. Holo-figures dance at each end of the long marble bar counter, and everywhere the place is bustling.

But the rich yellow lights are swinging slightly overhead now, although nothing is touching them. Cassian shakes his head, hoping movement in him may still the movement around him, at least a little. It doesn’t. He is definitely getting drunk.

The hells with it. He takes another swallow of the tawny spirits in his glass. He won, he can get drunk, just this once. 

His world is beautiful, even if it is also swaying. Around him the bar is full of happiness and light, a crowd of cheerful beings, a myriad eyes of every imaginable colour shining, a myriad faces smiling and mouths talking and laughing, hissing, pouting; kissing one another, singing along to the music…

He’s sitting with Tivik and Tiv’s favourite Togruta model Mayneta, at one end of a long dura-glass table. Little sparkle-lights are embedded here and there in its milky surface; they go on and off randomly, triggered by some change in the pitch of sounds, some vibration. Tivik’s face opposite him is lit from below with alternating green, yellow, blue light. The younger painter is laughing raucously again at something May says; he raises a hand and signals one of the wait-staff, asks for a new bottle, a good wine this time to follow the spirits.

Cassian grabs the server as he turns to go. “And a menu, please!” If they are going to pay the premium for table service, he might as well take advantage of it to get fed. His brain is a helium balloon, a bouncing globe buoyant with joy, floating in mid-heaven even as his hand takes the proffered data-pad, even as his eyes focus on the list of dishes and prices. He orders meatballs and a cracked grain pilaff, double portions of each. He’s pretty sure he won’t be able to eat all that food, servings at the Momus are large to begin with, but the others are bound to be hungry too, they always are. It will be good to be able to share. With this prize money, he won’t just get to have decent food in the cupboard, he’ll be able to make sure Tiv eats properly for a change, too.

Mayneta has moved to his side of the table. Her hand slips onto his thigh and she smiles at him, pouting her full lips out. He chuckles. “No thanks, May. I need to eat.”

“I’m happy to be eaten,” she purrs.

He’s too drunk not to laugh aloud at that. May is a beauty, all sea-green skin and silvery markings, and height, and lean muscular limbs; she’s also more than faintly terrifying. Luckily she takes his amusement in good humour. She shifts closer to him on the bench, kneading his flesh, bending her head to murmur in his ear “Tiv says you need a model. I’m a good model. So here I am!”

“I know you’re a model, you’re a very good one” – and very determined with that probing hand; name of life! – “No, please, May, fuck, don’t do that!”

Her pout curls back into something halfway to a snarl of frustration, but she slows her encroachments momentarily. Cassian catches his breath. “Tiv’s right, I do need a model, but I need a human model. It’s part of the terms of the commission.”

Mayneta snatches her hand away, as though his thigh were abruptly sharp as a razor. She snaps “And you’re okay with that? You’re not even going to question it? – that kind of bigotry?”

He sighs. Having a drunken political argument is really not what he would have chosen to do tonight. Especially not with May, who is fiery-fierce as a fury when she gets going.

He tries to sound conciliatory. “I didn’t choose the subject for the commission; it changes every year. The theme this year is The Beauty of the Streets and Director Krennic has interpreted that as meaning a beautiful human woman of the common people. You know what a bunch of elitists they are; the fact I can use a model who isn’t some aristocrat’s daughter is quite a concession.”

“It doesn’t look like much of one from where I sit,” May counters.

“I’m sorry.” And he is, too. He’d love to live in an ideal world, where great commissions grow on the trees and the Empire’s casual racism is a thing of the past. But if that world ever comes it’s unlikely to be in Cassian’s lifetime. He smiles warily at the Togruta. She’s still bristling. “This is a huge opportunity for me,” he says, willing her to understand, or at least to back off and leave him to enjoy his night of victory. “It could be my big break. I can’t afford to blow it by pissing my patron off.”

“You’re a coward,” May retorts succinctly. “You don’t care whose flag flies over your studio so long as you’re left alone to paint your pretty things. Beauty of the Streets, pah!” She stands up, shoving the bench back so hard he has to grab the table not to fall. Coloured lights flash on and off in protest under his grip. His drink tips.

“Aww, May, baby, don’t go!” says Tivik. “Party’s just getting going!”

Mayneta looks him over with a sniff and stalks off.

“What’s her problem? You been pissing her off again, Cass? Don’t tell me she was offering a little extra prize and you turned her down!”

Cassian rights the spilled glass ruefully. “I told her she can’t be my model for this and she’s angry I won’t be guided by her ideals and insist on choosing her. Dammit, Tiv, I’m an artist, not a politician; this isn’t my fight, you know that!”

“Yeah, right, mate. Hey, you need a new drink! Where’s that wine I ordered?”

The spat with May has sobered him; and right on cue, here’s Tiv’s bottle, and his supper. “Sure, pour me some. And d’you want to share this food with me?” 

It doesn’t need asking twice; Tivik is already picking up a spoon and digging in to the pilaff. Cassian grabs a second one and sets to work on the first solid meal he’s had in a couple of days.

They eat steadily, in the appreciative silence of men who know good meatballs when they get them, and who have both known hunger more often than satiety. Tiv may be a loud-mouth and an alcoholic, but he’s never begrudged Cassian his greater talent, has always been the first to cheer for his successes and commiserate his let-downs. Six months ago he shared his last bread portion with Cassian, and more than once they’ve split a single mug of toddy to warm themselves before hurrying back to their respective freezing winter studios. Even a noisy asshole can be a good friend, when the wind is in the right quarter; and with Tivik, so long as there’s a drink involved, the wind is always fair. 

When they are both stuffed to belching point, there are still some leftovers. Cassian pours more wine. “Don’t forget to ask them to give you a take-home package with that,” he says, indicating the remains of the food. 

Tivik wipes his mouth on his sleeve, picks up his glass and clinks it against Cassian’s. “To your success!”

“Yeah. I still can’t believe it.”

“You kriffing champion! You better get used to it. This is your big break, man!”

“Yeah, it is!”

The wine is cold, crisp and delicious; and strong. One of the fortified coast wines from Jeredel. Coming on top of the spicy meatballs and herb-seasoned grain it’s tinglingly dry and clean on his tongue. Tivik, facing him, takes a swig and waggles his eyebrows. “So, if you won’t hire Empress May -”

“- Not won’t, can’t -” 

“If you can’t hire Mayneta, who are you going to use for this commission of yours?” Tiv giggles into his glass. “Seems to me you could have some fun auditioning a few likely girls, if you know what I mean…”

“Tiv, you’re incorrigible.”

“Aw, don’t tell me you hadn’t had the same thought! C’mon, Cass, you know you need to know a girly strips well, after all!” Tivik twists round in his seat, peering blearily across the glowing bar. “Look at her! Or her, wow, I bet she’s all natural, know what I mean. You should go and ask her, go on…” He points at a statuesque woman with pale violet hair. “What a figure, eh, man?”

“Not my type.”

“Pile of fodder she’s not! Imagine those thighs around your neck! Sweet life! Oh, all right – how about the plump little dark one there?” He points again.

“Stop it, please, you’re just embarrassing yourself!”

Tivik refills both glasses cheerfully. “I’m disappointed in you… So who are you going to use, then?”

Cassian doesn’t answer. He’s blinking, trying to clear the haze of glowing light from his eyes. What was that – who – what had he just seen, behind the voluptuous black woman Tiv is leering at now?

There’s a wall panel, translucent, decorated with strips of green lighting tube. It illuminates a small table tucked away in a corner, and casts a softly coloured light on the features of the young woman sitting there, alone, staring thoughtfully at her untouched beer.

She’s as pale-skinned as any aristocrat, but short and round-faced where the rich tend to height and fine bones. A childlike mouth, neat blunt nose, huge clear eyes of unguessable expression. She wears a plain shirt and vest, well-worn and utilitarian, and her dark hair is not braided or bunned, or even colour-pinned, but pulled back into a single workaday knot on the nape of her long neck.

She looks tired, and guarded, and inexpressibly sad. And beautiful.

She’s perfect.

“I see what you’re looking at now,” teases Tivik. “That little blackbird’s going to sing you to sleep tonight, am I right or am I right?!” He winks cheerfully at the object of his earlier leering.

Cassian empties his glass and stands, patting his friend’s shoulder as he passes. “She’s all yours,” he says.

“Huh?”

“I’ve got to go.”

He makes his way across the bar, threading through the crowds of drinkers and between the many-coloured tables, towards the corner, and the girl sitting there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a tumblr post of gifs from the music video "The one that got away"...  
> The title comes from the poem "In a dark time, the eye begins to see" by Theodore Roethke.  
> Since this is about a starving artist living in a garret, I hope no-one will mind the little nod to "La Boheme"...  
> I'm getting advice from a friend now on nuances of the Star Wars universe, which I hope will help with the world-building. This may be going to be a long one, btw...


	2. Chapter 2

Jyn has been keeping them both in the corner of her eye since she got here. The bearded one is the target but Saw had said it didn’t matter which one it was she made contact with at this stage. She remembers the cold sneer in his voice as he told her “They’re ‘best friends’; which means, reach Tivik and you’ll reach Andor too.”

Coming into the bar she’d spotted them at once and been relieved to see they were drinking heavily. That should make the job easier. She’s been sat patiently over a beer for a while now, waiting for them to finish their current bottle and giving the death-eye to anyone who approaches her.

They’re both young and presentable, which will make the seduction part of the job easier. Tivik is cute, with round cheeks and a pretty, pouty mouth that smiles a lot. Andor isn’t really her type; good-looking, certainly, but way too intense for her tastes. If she were simply looking for a few hot nights for her own pleasure, she knows which one she would have chosen. Tivik looks fun, an easy-come-easy-go-guy; Andor may have the bone structure and the beautiful eyes, but he also radiates the kind of tightly contained energy that can mean too much else besides passion. Jyn knows that if there’s one thing she doesn’t need to deal with it’s the artistic temperament in its full glory; coiled and slow-burning, exploding with desire and rage. Handsome or no, she’d never risk it.

But he was the primary target. She had better prepare herself to walk away and not look back if that kind of fire showed in time. It was a shame baby-faced Tivik hadn’t won the damned commission, he would probably have been easier to get to, and easier to let go afterwards. But he hadn’t.

There’s movement in their corner; she raises her head a little and sees that Andor has stood up. He slaps his friend on the shoulder, his movements just faintly blurred by alcohol, and sets off striding across the Café Momus. He threads between tables and outstretched legs with exaggerated agility, grinning. He’s coming her way.

She allows herself to look right at him now, with a slight double-take and a quick tilt of her head so the green light will catch her eyes. Just enough movement to get him to glance over, notice her; then she can give him a stare, surprise and innocence and interest mixed together, a startled stare and then a shy smile. Keep it low-key, bordering on gauche, and you’ve got your opening.

But there’s no need for anything so elaborate. He’s looking right at her already. That simplifies things. She reins-in the smile to a bare ghost of placation, and keeps her eyes on him. He comes straight to her table.

Jyn knows she’s no man-magnet. Which has to mean he was coming this way anyhow. As usual, Saw has done his research. Andor may not be her type but she’s clearly his.

She looks away bashfully as he stops at her table.

“May I join you?”

Well, it’s an attractive voice, anyway; accented, warm-toned, dark but not too deep. A voice like a cup of strong black kaf with a slug of Mandalorian brandy in it. She leans forward, bowing her head a little so as to look up from under her brows. “Oh!” Playing shy Jyn, little, gentle, not-quite-virginal Jyn, game-but-timid Jyn who is regretting coming here but is unable to resist your bright eyes.

They are very bright eyes, too. She meets and holds them with her own and his face lights up with a widening, delighted smile.

She indicates the other chair. “Yes, yes of course. Help yourself. No-one’s sitting there. He didn’t show, or anyway, not yet.”

“You’ve been here an hour. That’s a long time to be patient for a date who’s let you down.”

She looks at the table-top, plays with her drink. Lowers her voice. “Yeah, I know. I really hoped he’d turn up but I guess…” 

“He is a fool to leave you hanging like this.” Andor pulls out the empty seat and flops onto it, long slim legs a-spraddle. “You’re the most beautiful woman in the place.”

She feels she has to show a little sass in response to a statement so blindingly untrue. “You must be pretty drunk if you think that.”

He grins happily, spreading both hands out on the table. He has good hands, thin and strong, with long fingers and shapely bony wrists. “I am a little bit drunk, okay. I’m celebrating. I got a big commission.” He leans forward. “And now I need to find a model. Are you a model?”

Force alive, she isn’t even having to make an effort. He’s handing himself over to her already, cuffed and captive.

A disturbing mental image, which she drives out furiously; those strong-boned wrists, handcuffed together. Absolutely not, Jyn!

A nervous giggle, and she fiddles with her glass again and takes a sip. “No, no, I’m not. Why would I be a model?”

He looks so sorry she feels mean; but this has to be played so that he feels he won her. She can’t let it be as easy as he’d make it otherwise. “The Momus is an artists’ bar,” he explains. “It seemed a good chance; most of the single females in here are models.”

“And I am single, it would seem, at least for tonight. But I hadn’t planned on it getting me a job. What does a model have to do, then?”

He brightens. “You’re interested? Would you like to give it a try? I’m sorry if I’m coming on strong, here, but the thing is, you really are the perfect type for my commission.”

Bless your poor innocence, Jyn thinks, pretending to think it over while she takes another mouthful of her beer. “Which is?”

Andor beams and begins telling her about it. He sits forward, leaning in to her, gesturing happily as he talks. He’s painting the air with his hands and his voice, and his enthusiasm is as charming as a child’s. Jyn has seen seasoned fighters sometimes get this excited, planning a raid or describing a successful kill. It’s strange to see the same light now, passionate with commitment, gleefully happy, in a face innocent of all death.

If only she really could bless his innocence, instead of taking advantage of it as she must.

“I know it’s not much,” he says, and there’s something like joy in his voice. “But it feels like a tiny bit of hope. The Beauty of the Streets isn’t the kind of concept you associate with the Empire. It’s like a minute spark of humanity. A reminder that you can find the light in the most unexpected places.”

Maybe in some places, Jyn thinks, but not here. She’d believe in flying banthas before she believed this was anything but a cynical marketing ploy. The real beauty of the streets was something a monster like Orson Krennic would be utterly blind to.

Nonetheless, she needs to smile and be happy about it. Getting in with this man is by far her best chance of getting to the Archives.

“It sounds amazing,” she tells him. She smiles into his eyes and is ashamed of how easy that is to do. Uses her shame, to inform the awkward glance-away, glance-back she does next. Andor leans further in, and his thin right hand crosses the mosaic table-top and brushes her left quickly.

His fingertips are warm. She ought to pull away immediately, she’s supposed to be playing him slow, after all. But the heat of that touch is weirdly electrifying. She’s been so cold, she thinks suddenly; too cold, too long, too deep. For a moment she wants to push her hand closer to his and feel his warmth enfold her.

His eyes are like polished agates, warm brown, full of light. She hangs on his touch for a second longer than is necessary; sees him go still, then start to smile, more hesitantly this time. She looks at their two hands; looks up to see him glance away, glance back. Her own move, but done in total sincerity now. Their eyes meet again.

Caught. Speared and landed in one.

“Would you be interested?” he says softly. Poor man, he looks so incredulously happy. She’s good at what she does. She’ll get him killed, and he’s never harmed a bug. All he knows is his art; and now she’s trapped him, like a leaf in a whirlpool, with her own.

She lets herself blush. “Interested in what? Seeing your paintings?”

“Modelling for me. For my commission.”

“What would I have to do? Is it – is it difficult, being a model? Do I have to – you know – be naked?”

He hesitates and then slides his hand into hers, reassuringly. “The commission is for two paintings, with the option for a third. Traditionally the option gets taken up; so it’s probably going to be three pieces. I admit, I had hoped to make at least one of them a nude. But the initial painting could certainly be clothed, we could start with that and see if you get on with it. All you really need to know is how to keep still.”

“I can do that.” Which is certainly true; she’s doing it right now, her hand hasn’t moved since he touched her. She’s pinned like an insect by his eyes.

She’s allowing herself to be pinned. It’s not the same thing. After all the innocent lives she’s taken without a thought, she cannot allow this one to claim an inch in her mind. The painter loves his work and makes it in innocence, in ignorance; she’s a citizen of a less cloistered world, a cold, dangerous world, and she will have to drag him into it, willing or unwilling. She’s going to open those brown eyes and force them to see things that are not beautiful at all, things hidden in plain sight in his sunshiny world of loveliness.

Cassian Andor is smiling at her, as though she’s the loveliest thing of all. Use it, use it!

“I’d love to see some of your work.” Look away, look back; feel hot. Pull your hand away now. Not too fast. “Sometime, I mean, when it’s not inconvenient.”

“Who said it would be inconvenient?” His smile broadens into an unabashedly happy grin. “What about now? My studio’s not far.”

Is this too quick? She moistens her lips, lets the smallest note of mischief into her voice. “You want me to come with you – leave the bar with you? This is just to look at your work, right? You promise?”

“I swear. On my right hand.”

His right hand. Which has found hers again. His fingers brush her knuckles with warmth. She hesitates and then meshes her own fingers through his for just an instant before pulling back.

“I’d like that,” she says.


	3. Chapter 3

The studio is indeed not far; two streets and an alley, and a path across a tiny, neglected square where palms stand against the night sky and scavenging beetles dash away as they pass, chitinous legs skittering on the moonlit concrete. Andor leads her through without giving them a glance, round to a doorway in a run-down corner building. The windows are old enough to be framed in wood, not durasteel, and there are flakes of coloured paint dropping into the street. At the foot of a downpipe a slick of dark liquid stains the pavement, and the pointing in the brickwork is crumbling. Andor opens the door without a glance at the run-down exterior.

The hallway is dark, and smells of dry rot and clean washing. The stairs creak; and it’s a lot of stairs. He’s taking her to the very top of the building, five storeys up. She reminds herself to pant prettily as they reach the top, though the climb has hardly winded her.

He smiles at her shyly on the dimly-lit landing. “I’m sorry about the long climb.”

“I hope it’s worth the build-up.”

The smile quirks sideways for a second. “Come inside, and see.” He takes a bunch of keys from his pants’ pocket, two swipe-keys and two old-fashioned metal ones, and using them all one by one he unlocks the only door on this top level. Opens it, and steps aside, ushering her inside with a broad sweep of his arm. Jyn raises an eyebrow in amusement at the gesture. She steps forward into a tiny space with two doors, one open and one closed; and through the open door, into a darkened room beyond.

“Lights?” she asks after a moment. 

“Oh – yes! Sorry, yes, sorry!” There’s a click; and the darkness stays. “Oh! – the meter must be empty, I’m sorry!” Although the climb had barely affected his breath he sounds flustered and breathless now. “I’ll – I’ll fix it, hang on a sec…”

He darts past her and opens the other door, and Jyn stands waiting in the dark, smiling despite herself. She hears rustling and a thump and a muffled curse behind her. He was a little drunk, she remembers. 

Around her this room has the feel of a large space; the air moves easily, and the sounds echo slightly, unsoftened by drapes or furnishings. There’s a strong, sour smell of solvents. From the right hand wall comes a faint gleam from a window, of street light outside, and when she looks just past it, she can see the palm trees in her peripheral vision, their soft many-handed shapes dark against the backdrop of the towers of Coronet City.

Cassian Andor swears again behind her, and suddenly the room blooms into brilliant light. And colour. So much colour. The entire space is bursting and ringing with it, drowning in it, flooded and burning. Every inch of wall space is hung with paintings and drawings; canvases hung on nails and hooks, sheets of flimsy-paper gummed up with stick-um tape. 

She sees flowers, a thousand flowers, everything from modest hedgerow blossom to the biggest and most spectacular tropicals. Every season and every biome she’s ever imagined is represented, unfettered and rapturous life in blazing red and gold, violet and azure and scarlet and flame-orange. It’s like being embraced by rampaging colour. Among the flowers, here and there, are paintings of bowls of fruit, and little groups of bottles and crockery and random domestic objects; silverware, folded linen, unshelled nuts, a lamp, a comb… She moves further into the room, mesmerised. Like windows through the cornucopia of flowers, there are landscapes and views; of the city, all glittering towers and plunging canyon-like alleys, of underworld places scintillating with shadows; but also of sunlit coasts, green bays edged with white sand, dark forests that glitter with frost. Faces peer out at her, a few on each wall; she sees his friends from the bar, the baby-lipped Tivik, the statuesque Togruta female, and a dozen other faces, unfamiliar but intensely alive. 

In the middle of the room is a single easel, and on it a painting, rougher than the ones around, of a tree in full leaf against a clear sky, shimmering in sunlight as if ablaze.

Wherever she looks, there is beauty; and colour that wraps itself around her mind and pulls her closer.

Jyn has not lived a life attuned to the beautiful. She struggles for words, even for comprehension. How has so much loveliness, so much light, been around her, and gone unnoticed? She turns slowly in the midst of glory, staring, and her lips fumble around words that won’t come. Sunlight and life, shadows and darkness; men and women with watching eyes and smiling and quiet mouths; unobserved corners of the lower city haunted by silent figures, and the brightest and highest towers shining in the spring haze. They are all just real things, things she’s seen every day in the world; but because he has seen them and known how to see their beauty, now she sees it too. The light shone through them and from them, and they are ordinary no longer.

She pivots in wonder, and faces the man in the doorway. “This is – this is so beautiful…”

He’s leaning on the jamb, hands in pockets, watching her. She gestures to left and right, acutely aware of how ill-at-ease she is with being lost for words. It’s a kind of helplessness, and Jyn has not been willingly helpless once since she was eight years old. But she has no idea of the way to tell him how moved she is. “I don’t know what to say… This is just so beautiful.”

He bites his lip and grins, wrinkling his nose boyishly. “Thanks! That really means a lot to me, you know?”

She falls into the role of Little Gentle Jyn. “I’m sorry, I sound like such an idiot! I’m just stunned. Your paintings are lovely.”

“Then will you work for me? Look” - he springs into the room, catching her by the arm and swinging her to face a place on the wall where a row of wise-eyed portraits smile down through the riot of nature – “This is what we’ll be doing to start with, a half-length portrait, you can have a comfortable chair, wear your own clothes, we can work together to decide the pose, how you present yourself. It’ll be so cool! – please say yes!”

His hand has slid down to clasp hers unselfconsciously. Entirely and helplessly consciously, she allows it. She looks up at him. He’s beaming down at her like a full moon, bright with the light his art reflects. Had she really thought, just an hour ago, that his intensity was unattractive? She squeezes his hand welcomingly.

“Yes,” she says, and this time she doesn’t need to fake it or to force warmth into her voice. “Oh yes, I would love that!…”


	4. Chapter 4

The first sitting is scheduled for just two days’ time and Cassian can barely eat for excitement. He has a model, he has ideas already about what to try out for the first composition, and it is all real, it’s all happening. The morning after his celebrations with Tiv and his first meeting with Jyn Erso, he wakes with a dry mouth and an aching back and stumbles downstairs to go out and buy some groceries, and even tired and hung-over he’s dancing inside with delight. 

When he checks his credit he finds the first instalment of the commission money has come in. His heart skips and he forgets all about food. He heads across the district to a furnishers’ depository, to buy wood struts and canvas, then to an artists’ supply shop in Antana Plaza. The store is the best in Coronet City, and it’s a paradise he’s tried to keep his greedy eyes out of, till now. He walks through the aisles, selecting the best quality paints and a big bottle of glue-primer, a pad of drawing paper, graphite sticks and three grades of charcoal, a dozen new brushes; wedge-headed hogs, silken feathers, fine-hair finishers. Being able to afford all that makes him shiver with happiness.

He makes himself stop at the grocery store on the way home to get some bread; has to remind himself he doesn’t need to buy the cheapest kind anymore.

He makes his canvases, stretches and primes them; the boiled-grease smell of bantha-skin glue fills the apartment and he leaves the windows open all night trying to clear it, and is bitten by furious midges till he dives under the sheets and near-stifles himself to avoid them. He cleans the studio and the rest of the apartment more thoroughly than he’s done in a year, mopping and suctioning every corner, collecting a whole bag of trash, stuffing crumpled clothes into the closet, scrubbing the tiny refresher with mould-spray and bleach. The different chemicals, acrid spray-off and chlorine and claggy primer, pull against one another in a cloying blend of stink. Another night with the windows open, trying to clear it.

And it’s the morning, it’s today, it’s now. Jyn Erso is coming first thing. 

He runs to the grocery this time, suddenly worried that she won’t have eaten; hastily buys a dark grain-loaf, a bunch of grapes, a wedge of blue cheese; and a bottle of light wine, a bag of ice shavings, just in case. Hurries home to push them all into the chiller and then dash about, sorting and resorting everything that he’d though was ready already. He arranges a chair by the studio window, moves it, moves it back; covers it with a cushion, then with a length of rose-print fabric, which he drapes and re-drapes anxiously. He wants to capture the morning light in her hair, get her backlit, just sitting looking out; thoughtful and dreaming as she was when he first saw her, that night in the Momus.

He brews kaf on the little gas stove and drinks two cupfuls, black, strong enough to make his head spin. Hurries to the studio window to watch out for her. Jyn is coming, this morning, now. Any minute she will walk into sight. His heart is pounding. This is the day when everything begins.

He sits on the wooden frame, looking into the square below. It’s hard not to hang half out of the window in impatience. Jyn will be coming soon. Jyn; such an odd, blunt name for a graceful woman. 

He wonders what she’ll have chosen to wear, how she’ll dress her hair. If she hasn’t broken her fast yet he can give her bread and cheese now, he can give her sweet grapes and fresh kaf. The sun is out and the feather-bunched palms cast bright shadows in the square. The studio is full of golden light.

There are birds down below, feeding, scattering from an excited toddler, landing again to peck for food in the scanty grass. The child moves on with a squeal of excitement; starts chasing scavenger beetles instead and is hastily rescued by her father. Passers-by stroll or hurry to work. A plump Drall goes by selling munu-nuts and sliced fruit from a hand-cart; a human dust-collector passes, sweeping up leaves and litter, chivvying the beetles into a drain with his broom. The busker who plays the corner of Aquila Street most days goes by with her guitar on her back and a red bandana in her hair. A gas delivery truck parks up, clanking with domestic cylinders, and the driver leans out, calling “Butane-o, butane-o!” and waiting for customers to gather. The birds scatter and whirl round the square again in the morning sunshine.

She comes down the cobbled path between the trees, in and out of stripes of shadow. Her own shadow, slender and morning-long, dances behind her. She’s wearing a long skirt, loose and pale pearl-coloured, and an ivory blouse with bright colours on bodice and neckline; the sleeves are rolled back to show her arms to the elbow. Sandals on her feet, a blue cloth bag over one shoulder, her hair knotted back loosely with untidy strands escaping. Rosy cheeks, bright eyes; the smile of someone happily unobserved. She looks like a song.

He’s humming as he runs down the dirty stairs to meet her.

When he opens the door, she’s so beautiful he can’t breathe for a moment. Here, on the street where he lives, the Beauty of the Streets. Jyn Erso. Her eyes in the morning light are the colour of the sea. She smiles up at him, almost confidant yet still shy inside it.

Cassian isn’t a big man, or a powerful one; he’s above average height but he knows he’s skinny as only a genuinely half-starved artist can be. It’s a joke, for him to say he will protect anyone, when if it comes to a fight he can barely protect himself. But looking at the delicate innocence standing on his doorstep, at all the life in that hopeful smile, he knows he would do anything in his strength to protect her. He feels ten foot tall, a Jedi or Guardian of legend, in the honour of that smile.

Going up the stairs after her he trips over his own feet. Twice.

She stands in the middle of the studio, looking at the chair, and the view it’s angled towards, then at the sketchpad and fistful of graphite and charcoal sticks on the floor beside it.

“Not painting?”

“Not yet, no. I want to draw you first. Just studies. To – to get to know your face, test out different poses, that kind of thing.” And, though he doesn’t say it, to capture something of her to keep for his own, something to have forever, for when the paintings are done and long-gone to their home in the Museum.

She brushes a hand across the folds of her skirt, suddenly self-conscious. “Is what I’m wearing alright?”

“It’s perfect for you, it’s beautiful. You look amazing in pale colours.”

He’s trying not to fidget, but it’s hard; he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He’d love to get started but he doesn’t want her to stop talking; wants to get that charcoal in his hand and start making marks, wants too to make her smile again, make her relax and be at ease here, with him.

She lowers her bag to the floor, runs one hand along the back of the chair, stroking the rose-patterned silk. “So, should I just – just sit down?”

“Yes, yes please – oh, I forgot! – would you like anything to eat? Or a drink - kaf, tea, anything?”

“I’m fine. I ate before I – before I left home.”

“Ah. Okay, good, that’s good. Great, then let’s get started. Please, just make yourself comfortable. I’ll direct you if I want you to move or anything.” She looks uncertain; sits down cautiously, smoothing the folds of her skirt, fiddling with her turned-back cuffs. “That’s fine, just the way you are is fine… Would you look out of the window? Just turn your head. As if you were watching for someone to come across the square. That’s it, that’s perfect!”

He sits down cross-legged on the floor and grabs the pad and his charcoal. Looks up at her. 

Her expression is wistful. Narrow hands rest, semi-clasped, motionless in her lap. At the neck of her blouse he sees that the coloured patterns are embroidered, and are a little uneven; hand-work, not of the best quality. Perhaps even her own work. The fabric is light, not much more than muslin, and the skin of her throat is tender, half-shadowed by the translucent cotton. In all the softness, one single crisp line is drawn, dark and exact, a thong round her neck carrying some unseen pendant or amulet hanging at her breast. 

She doesn’t move. Her stillness is like a gift to him.

He draws and draws, working fast, tearing each study off the pad as it’s finished and beginning another. Blocks of light and shade, webs of lines like fine lace. Just a couple of minutes for each drawing at first; her face, her hands, the folds of her clothing; then longer, ten minutes or so, on rough compositional studies; her whole figure, with the chair, the window, the treetops outside, exploring the way the light falls and moves across the whole scene. Masses and forms, contours and edges and the interplay of symmetry and openness, light and shadow, pattern and clarity. 

The studies are working, as studies; but something’s missing. Jyn herself. He’s getting her posture right but as yet, nothing that couldn’t be any other human model he’s known. Nowhere near to the essence of that face, yet.

He essays her profile, the short nose and distinctive mouth with its retroussé upper lip and stubborn lower. Almost captures her, at last, almost but not quite. There’s a subtlety of expression, a contained quality about her; as though she is watching from inside her watching.

Cassian doesn’t believe in The Mystery of Woman. Women are living beings like any others, not insurmountable puzzles for the delectation of men. But there is, within the innocence, something occluded and secret about Jyn. It captivates him. Not the mystery of Woman but that of the soul itself, the veiled rose of humanity in all its infinite beauty and serenity. 

He wants to unfold the first petals, to see a glimpse of the flower’s heart. See her, herself. He’s used to seeing people; to seeing the set of a mouth, the creases at the corner of an eye, seeing the way they both hide and show character, and reveal who smiles and who has wept, whose cynicism is true and whose a shield. Jyn’s truth is so shielded, he thinks; but she’s painfully young to be so held-back.

“Please would you look towards me now? That’s perfect, that’s it…”

He hopes he can win her trust, and see her lift the veils. He draws.

After a couple of hours he has a pile of twenty or more studies, ranging from the roughest sketches to the last few drawings that are detailed and careful; all of them needing to be fixed before they get smudged. His hands are black with charcoal. Jyn’s stillness is extreme, he’s never come across anything like it, even from long-term professionals like Mayneta. The muted quiet of her expression fascinates him more and more. He hasn’t yet really caught her once. There’s something utterly elusive in her face.

The best drawing he’s managed is one of her hands, which are as thin and strong as his own. Hands, he reminds himself, looking at this now, are another part of the body’s truth.

He looks up from the last drawing. She’s watching him. Expressionless, contained; but there is something alight and alive in her eyes.

Painting those eyes will be another challenge, when the time comes. Their colour shifts between grey-blue and grey-green as the light changes, and there are flecks of golden brown that seem to change too, dancing into life and vanishing from moment to moment. It’s like looking at the sea. Being watched by the sea.

She’s barely moved all morning, except when he asked her to. Even her breathing is almost imperceptible. He has to look at the neckline of her blouse to see the faint movement, the rise and fall of her breast, shifting that ghost of shadow on her skin.

She’s a natural model, that’s for sure. But a harder subject than he had expected.

He draws.


	5. Chapter 5

Jyn isn’t sure what she expected, but this isn’t it. Being a model is slow.

A straightforward seduction might have been simpler, and certainly quicker; even if it did leave her afterwards trying to extricate herself from his emotions. This is a less involved process; turn up, smile and look sad, sit down, pretend you’re on sniper duty and will be caught and shot if you move. So far, so simple; but so slow. And she has no idea how protracted it may turn out to be. It could take weeks before she can move out of this room full of colour and light, before she can stop just sitting with Andor and start using him, before she can get into the Museum, get into the Archives, find the plans. The Death Star plans hidden there; get the plans and then, the Director.

The assassination of Krennic is her secondary mission. She knows it’s wrong to keep it in her focus at this stage, but she wants more than anything to have the chance to fulfil it. Saw, she knows, would like to see that happen too, but his chief aims are to do whatever is necessary to destroy the Empire, and to renew his connections with the Alliance. The chance to eliminate a much-hated Imperial has to come secondary to these things, so she must keep her desire for vengeance under control. She has to play the long game, and get to the plans before the Rebels find another way to get their own copy.

It’s a way back for Saw, and for all her partisan comrades. Bearing this information, they can come in from the cold, be welcome in the council again, have some part in shaping Alliance policy, get a say in where the troops go and what missions are carried out. 

Once she’s done her duty by them, then she can act for herself. 

She doesn’t expect to live long enough to join Saw at Alliance headquarters. But she’ll get her payback if she can, she’ll take down the man who killed her parents, before the end.

To treat the cause they died for as less important than private vengeance would be shameful. The Empire is finally on the point of completing its secret weapon and everything else has to come second to preventing that. All conflicts and hatreds, all differences of opinion, all remembered pointless arguments. If even Saw, after his years of mocking the Alliance leadership, can see how crucial this is, how vital it is that they all work together, and seek to make his way back, she cannot do less than help him. If personal feelings snarl her path and she opts to bring Krennic his death as soon as she can, she will jeopardise the greater mission, and Saw’s last chance at redemption will be gone. 

She owes him her life; she can’t betray the man who’s saved her so many times, not now, not over this.

But with so much at stake, to be sitting here in the spring sunlight doing nothing, watching Cassian Andor bite his beautiful lip absently as he draws her, and get charcoal dust on his face and his handsome hands and his clean white shirt, simply feels unnatural. She wants to scream at him to get on with it. Draw me, paint me, chat to me, decide I’m your friend, take me to meet your patron at the damned Museum. Let me get into the fucking Archives before it’s too late!

“Would you like a break?” he asks suddenly. “Kaf, tea? Or, ah, I have some wine? Have a stretch, you’ve kept so still all this time, you must be aching all over.”

She can’t tell him how long she’s sat still sometimes, gun in hand, waiting for a target, hidden only by her own motionlessness. She stands up and pretends to stretch more than she needs. “Kaf would be nice, if you have any.”

“Sure, kaf, I’ll make some.”

He unfolds himself, grinning, and stands up, all long lean limbs and charcoal-blackened hands, and hair rumpled all ways by his habit of running those hands through it when he thinks. He goes through into the other room and closes the door behind him quickly.

Jyn strolls round the studio again, taking advantage of daylight to look more closely at the various portraits scattered along his walls of art. This, after all, is presumably what his picture of her will eventually resemble. She suddenly wishes she knew more about painting. There are some very odd colours in the human faces he paints; when he sees them they are green, blue, gold, even scarlet; yet step back, and it doesn’t look like paint or even like tattoos, but like normal shadows on normal skin, under a chin or beneath a pair of bright eyes. In one of the portraits she recognises as Tivik, almost all the hair is actually coloured a frenzied mess of moss green and purple; yet somehow as she looks at the picture, her mind translates it into a very ordinary dark brown. 

It would be good to have a clue how long this modelling business is going to last. Then she would know if there’ll be time to learn more about things like this. After all, talking to Andor about his work would surely qualify as useful; getting to know him, earning his trust. And men usually like it when a woman asks them about their life and their work and all the things that make them special. Yes, she’ll ask him to teach her about art.

The door creaks slightly behind her and she stills the urge to spring to the attack; turns casually, keeping her smile studiedly mild. Andor emerges from the other half of the apartment, carrying not merely drinks but a whole small meal for two on a tray. The air is suddenly perfumed with the smells of fresh bread and strong kaf, completely masking the usual chemical odours and the permanent undernote of dry rot. 

There’s a loaf, cheese, fruit; an entire pot of kaf and two chunky ceramic mugs. He’s washed his hands and face, and flattened the messy hair a little, but there’s still a big smear of charcoal on his shirt. He smiles at Jyn hopefully.

“Would you like something to eat?”

“I already had breakfast,” she reminds him. She’s trying not to look too greedily at the food; it’s considerably more than she would get from Saw in half a week. She has to swallow a sudden rush of saliva in her mouth as he sets the tray down and crouches beside it, breaking off a hunk of bread, pouring the kaf. There are breadcrumbs and seeds sticking to his tanned fingers. She hopes her stomach won’t betray her by gurgling.

She has eaten, but it was a half portion of fry-bread, probably yesterday’s to judge from its level of dryness. A half portion was fair commons, a sign Saw wanted her to do well. She’d thought it a good meal.

Andor offers her a chunk of the new bread along with a steaming mug. She accepts the drink, waves the food away determinedly. His grin is a little sheepish. “I was so excited this morning, I couldn’t eat. I hope you don’t mind if I have my breakfast now?” 

Jyn shrugs. “Go ahead.”

He settles on the floor again, smiling and tearing the bread with his teeth. There’s a silence except for the noise of him chewing and crunching happily. Jyn sips her kaf; miraculously, it’s just as strong and as dark as she likes it.

The tray is right by her feet, and she can see a bloom of coolness on the skin of each grape. She hasn’t tasted fresh grapes since the fall; these must be imported from the south, to be in the shops now. An extravagance Saw would never contemplate. 

She’s staring. He pushes the plate towards her. “Try them, they’re delicious.”

“Well…” Seeing as she’s given herself away now. “Perhaps just a few. To keep you company.”

His smile is so happy; all morning he’s been alternately frowning in concentration and biting his lip, and then giving little sweet smiles like this, as unselfconscious and fleeting as the joys of a dream. He stretches his legs out across the floor, watching her as she takes a few grapes. He looks eager and anxious as she bites one off the bunch. As if her review could make or break the vineyard. She presses the fruit against her palate and the juice bursts into her mouth, ice-cold and shockingly sweet. Jyn shivers with pleasure.

Her self-control fractured, she reaches down and takes a larger handful, and returns to the seat in the window with them and her mug of perfect kaf. Andor munches his bread and looks up at her like a man watching something he loves.

She wants him to look at anything else, rather than her, when he looks like that. She fidgets and examines the fruit in her lap minutely.

“So,” he asks. “What do you do, normally?”

Ah. Her backstory. She looks up with a quick smile. “I live with my papa – well, adoptive papa, really, my parents died when I was little – and I work in his business.” All of it, thus far, entirely true, which makes it easy, the task of speaking it nothing more than the sincerity of truth.

“Which is?” His voice is gentle; his eyes are gentle, too. 

The sincerity of truth is not truth itself, and the unfairness of lying to Andor while she is eating his food stings. Jyn says hastily “Oh, a little retail, a little wholesale,” and then because the coded phrase is so familiar, she hears the rest of it tripping off her tongue too. “A little give-and-take…”

He blinks; and a moment later she does too. That was a very, very bad move, she thinks. Shamefully sloppy. Yet how could she have predicted it? Somehow, he recognised the phrase. Cassian Andor knows a smuggler.

Well, if she ever needs to blackmail him, that might be handy. She hopes it won’t come to that. But the practicalities of partisan life have seldom allowed for what Jyn hopes.

“Mostly retail,” she adds quickly. “He’s a tailor.” Which is at least true as regards the sign above Saw’s shop door, and the bolts of fabric that come in and out occasionally, folded around other less respectable purchases. 

Corellia’s famous rag trade has long been a cover for smuggling, and Andor’s face is a study. If it weren’t so irritating, it would be funny. But the confession (“you see, my papa – he isn’t really a tailor…”) was supposed to be her emergency fall-back if he got too curious about her life. Now she’ll need to come up with something else. Or Saw will. 

Where in the name of light had this handsome dreamer come across smugglers’ argot?

“That’s – that’s nice,” he says. “A good trade.” His fine lips part and then close again on whatever more he’d been about to say.

“His shop’s on Belén Street,” Jyn says, mischievous. Belén Street, in the heart of the web of alleys and yards between Old Town and the docks. Seedy as they come. “You should visit sometime.” Which hopefully will at least make sure he doesn’t.

Andor is disappointingly unruffled by her attempts to rile him. He chews on his bread and asks “So when do you have to be back in the – shop?”

“Oh, I don’t. Business is quiet at the moment and this pays, so he’s given me as much time with you as you need. Don’t worry, I won’t leave you with things half done.”

“That’s good to know.”

He cuts a piece of cheese and eats that thoughtfully.

It seems she has killed the conversation. Damn it. She casts around for a good opener. “When did you decide you wanted to be an artist?”

Andor shakes his head. “Not a decision,” he says. “I didn’t choose, I knew. I’ve known since I was a child.” He swigs the last of his kaf. “It’s like a mission, I guess. No matter how bad other things get, I always have this. I can come home in this. It gives everything meaning.”

“Have things been bad, ever?” He can afford to eat well, he has his own apartment, he could afford to move to Corellia; she wonders what his idea of ‘bad’ is.

“Yes… I lost my parents very young, like you. Knowing my life has a purpose, it helps. It’s hard to explain…”

She didn’t expect that. Perhaps his background isn’t as unexceptional, as comfortable, as Saw’s scorn had implied. Perhaps Saw’s research wasn’t flawless. 

She’d like to be able to tell him she understands exactly what he means about having a sense of purpose, but it would cut too close to truths she’s not allowed to reveal. She asks “What happened to your parents?” and sees his eyes go distant for a moment before he looks up at her again.

“My father was killed at the Carida Academy, in a protest. My mother and my sister died in the 'flu pandemic on Fest a few years later. There was a shortage of anti-virals, a lot of people died who needn’t have…”

The pandemic; sweet life, that’s terrible. He can't have been any older than she was when her parents died... 

At least now she can place his accent. “You’re from Fest?”

“Yes.”

“And you came here to live - to another occupied planet? You were okay with that?”

“I’m an artist. I have to go where the art is being made. If this commission goes well, I may have to move to Coruscant.” His mouth tenses for a moment. “I’m not sure how I feel about that. I try not to think about the politics.”

“The medical shortages on Fest were because of the Imperial blockade,” Jyn says impulsively.

“I know.” His expression is distant again for a moment; then he swallows and looks her in the eye. “Like I said, I try not to think about politics.” He puts his mug down on the tray and pushes the whole thing back out of the way. “How about we get on with some more drawings now?”

It’s a clear push away from the subject. A wall, and hidden things behind it; and definitely not as comfortable a childhood as she’d understood. She says “Sure,” and composes herself on the seat in the window again. 

So, he tries not to think about politics; she will see if she can’t make him, anyway. He’s too intelligent to lie to himself, he’s as good as told her he knows how much he’s betraying by following this mission of his. And he’s too talented, and too good, for the Empire. 

She’ll push back in time, since it seems time is something she has plenty of; she’ll push back, she’ll make him think; and she will win Cassian Andor.


	6. Chapter 6

By the end of the third day he has chosen a pose and is well on the way with the first painting. With a model as still and as graceful as this he can work in long spells, keep his concentration focussed for hours. The planning and sketching-in is dealt with in one morning, the ground applied, and now he’s starting to build up glazes. The subtle colours of Jyn’s eyes, her lips, the shadows at her throat, all begin to appear, tender and alive, under the touch of his brush. The weather stays bright, and the light tantalises him more each day, falling through her hair, stroking her skin.

He goes on buying enough food for her too. Nothing fancy, just bread and ham, cheese, salad. That first day, he hadn’t been sure; was she genuinely hungry or eating just to keep him company? She’d looked at the contents of the tray with a naked greed he recognised all too well; that, he was certain, was the look of someone who has barely kept hunger at bay sometimes, seeing food when they have disciplined themselves to emptiness too many times. But then she’d taken only a few grapes, had been equally as abstemious the rest of the day, and he’d doubted his own impression. Only to have her arrive the next morning and stare, and say “Please may I?” before falling on the slice of fruit pie he’d set out for her as if she’d eaten nothing for a night and a day. 

“I – I missed breakfast today,” she’d explained, when she caught him looking. Her eyes hid more; but Cassian has decided he will never probe. She deserves the respect of making her own choices; what to tell him, if, and when. He’s gone hungry himself often enough to know the constraints hunger places on your thinking, and the pride it can instil. If her adoptive family can’t afford to feed properly, prying into their affairs is unlikely to be welcomed. But at least now, with Krennic’s money, he can get some decent food into this one soul.

He’s enjoying the regular meals himself, too; and her company makes them better yet.

Her company, whether silently motionless and radiant, or animated and talking; her company is a blessing altogether unlooked-for. It turns out Jyn Erso is not only beautiful but interesting.

She has a habit of asking questions he hasn’t expected, prompting him to think, turning things around so that the answers he always gives himself don’t seem to make sense after all. He’s having to look for ways to put his thoughts into words, even the most unforged and inchoate of them. He hasn’t had to do that in years, and it ought to be uncomfortable, but it feels like recovering something, a memory of engaging further than he has done since he came to Corellia, a sense of the way things join up, even when the joins are unseen. 

She asks him about his work, and wants to know, not what paints he’s using or what brand of primer, but why did he choose that subject; why that place, that view, that object? What did it make him feel, what was he trying to evoke? She asks him about his other portraits; who are the subjects, are they all his friends, how does he know them, why does he like them?

Taking about Tivik, the day she asks about his picture, Cassian takes a gamble and echoes another phrase from Tiv’s argot. Sees her flicker. She has the tiniest tell, he wouldn’t have seen it a week ago, but he’s been gazing into her face every day for hours at a stretch, completely focussed, and he’s beginning to get attuned to the nuances of her expression. There are so many delicate tensions and shifts, even subtle changes in her eye colour as she hides a smile or a flash of confusion. He still hasn’t managed to capture her entirely in his painting, and maybe he never will; but he is beginning to be able to read Jyn Erso. And it would seem that startled look, their first morning, was genuine. She, or more likely this papa of hers, knows a spice smugglers’ ring.

Maybe her papa is a smuggler. Cassian hopes not. A tailor’s business in the shabbiest end of the city is one thing; poor but respectable, hardly an unfamiliar state of affairs, and it makes sense that they would know some unsavoury types, just from the neighbourhood alone. But if her family are in the trade, then the next Imperial clamp-down could put her in danger. It’s an alarming idea.

He quickly turns the conversation aside, onto the potted flame lilies in the adjacent painting, and the story of how Tivik acquired them. It’s a good story; a funny one, but also telling as to Tiv’s character, his generosity and his delight in doing things just for the joke. Tiv has nothing to do with the spice trade now, but it’s still the ground he grew in, and rough sort though he is, he’s Cassian’s best friend. Smugglers aren’t all evil by any means.

Jyn laughs at the lily story. He wishes she would laugh more; wishes there were more laughter lines in her face, and fewer shadows of tiredness and sadness.

He takes her out, that night, after a simple evening meal of fried cheese and salad. They go to the Momus to meet Tiv and Mayneta. Remembering her shyness the first time they met, Cassian expects her to hang back, thinks he will need to introduce her carefully. Instead, he watches in amazement as a different Jyn appears, a Jyn who is cool and acerbic and witty, who keeps flirtatious males deftly at bay and brings resentful females on side with a few words. In the space of a few minutes May moves from glaring at her to buying her a drink, and Tiv and every other woman-lover in the place fawns on her. It’s hilarious. He know he may not yet have reached the inner woman; but his friends are being dazzled by a charming mask, and only he knows even a fraction of the complex gentleness within. He squeezes her hand, once, quickly, and she glances round at him and goes entirely still, her eyes held in his, as though for a moment they were back in the studio, their glance a shared secret, all the morning’s light falling around her in his sight. Then she turns away to listen to something May is saying, and refills the Togruta’s glass with a laugh.

As the evening wears on, May suggests a dance bar. Cassian half-expects Jyn to refuse, but instead she looks to him with a sparkle in her face, and he finds himself echoing the idea happily - it will be great – it will be fun – there’s a place in Three-roads Plaza that has live music! Without thinking, he puts his arm round Jyn as she comes to his side. Tiv and May exchange a look; but she doesn’t resist, and he stares them down. Jyn’s back feels thin, her narrow shoulders muscular, under his bare arm. She leans into his body and smiles up at him. “Let’s go dancing with them, Cassian?”

“Yes, let’s go dancing!”

He’s too happy. Surely this cannot last? It’s exhilarating, her sea-glass eyes shining in the silver light from the bar-top holos, her lovely, subtle face, her smile pulling one side of her mouth wider than the other. His friends liking her, her liking them, the night mild, the delicious tang of coast wine and the dizziness of lamps like swinging flowers in the Café Momus.

And then they get to the Hatulumia, and by some wonderful coincidence the music tonight is a Festi band, playing traditional songs so infectiously joyful his feet are beating out time as soon as he walks in the door.

Tiv goes to the bar and orders sugar-spirits for everyone. May has headed straight onto the dance floor and is already ruling it; long limbs popping, lekku snaking about, eyes flashing. She looks like a force of nature and most of the customers are staring at her in groggy-dazzled amazement. She’ll like that. He looks down at Jyn by his side. 

“May I have this dance?”

“Ah – yes, of course you may…”

He leads her to the edge of the floor. A hand to her waist, the other raised to clasp hers. Their bodies are very close. She lays her free hand on his shoulder; and is suddenly hesitant. He feels her body go rigid and she looks down at her feet and then up at him, eyes very wide.

“Jyn? Are you alright?”

A quick reactive smile that falls away too fast. “I’m fine. It’s just that – I haven’t danced with anyone for a long time…”

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you. Do you know the steps for partner dances like this?”

“Yes, I think so; my father taught me all sorts of dances when I was little.” She leans in, lifting her head to murmur beneath the merriness of the music. “He always used to ask if he could have this dance, exactly the way you just said it. It just felt really strange for a moment.”

Something about the way she tells him makes him certain that this was her real father, not the cryptic papa in Belén Street, the tailor-cum-spiceman. Cassian draws her close and leans over to whisper in her ear “I know that feeling; it was my sister who taught me, when we were children.”

She looks up silently at him, her lips parting, as he straightens again. Then lays her head on his breast and says nothing. They stand swaying in time to the music for a moment.

It feels strange, to have such a sense of connection to this young woman he met less than a week ago. They scarcely know one another yet already there’s an intimate sympathy between them, a kindredness of heart. He knows he can trust her with that memory, that he has never shared with anyone before. Or perhaps it’s all just the liquor. The air seems to be humming like a struck guitar string each time their eyes meet.

The band starts another song; a moro, a gentler rhythm, steady and not too fast. He touches Jyn in the small of the back delicately, taking the first steps as he does so, and she responds and moves with him into the dance. She isn’t skilful, but then, nor is he, and they’re dancing for pleasure, not to impress. He’s a thousand times happier with Jyn in his arms than he could ever have been if he were caught up in Mayneta’s bravura performance, trying to keep up, and to dodge getting slapped round the ear by her swinging head-tails. Jyn hesitates sometimes, and seems happy to be guided by him, but she stays on the beat and by the second dance her smile is less tentative. He spins her and steers her into a dip, and she comes up laughing.

By the end of the live music set, the band are playing charios, and the whole dance floor is one mass of intertwining spirals doubling back and circling. May, inevitably, is at the head of one of the longest lines, strutting and doing high kicks that look suspiciously like moves from some martial art discipline. Someone starts throwing balloons onto the dance floor and the music gets faster and faster at every repeat. Jyn’s hand is warm in his, and at every turn of the dance, when he looks her way, she is glancing up at him and laughing, and smiling. Cassian smiles back, helpless. And perhaps again it’s just the hard liquor, but all he can see is that something inside her seems to have opened, and found light and safety, out here, dancing in the wide, unknown world.


	7. Chapter 7

Jyn gets into the tuk-tuk Cassian had insisted on calling for her, and directs it to Belén Street.  As it wheels away through the night crowds she looks back, and sees him waving and grinning; the elegant Mayneta behind him waves too, one white eyebrow raised sardonically, then puts two fingers up behind Cassian’s head and wiggles them in imitation of tiny montrals.  Jyn laughs and waves back.  It’s been a ridiculously happy evening.  She can’t wait to do it again.

The tuk-tuk bounces round a corner and they are gone from sight, and her joy with them.  

She’s going to have to get the driver to drop her off at the corner when they get there.  The vehicle’s tinny bells are just loud enough that she daren’t risk having it take her right to the door.  She can let herself in at the back, via the storehouse, and creep up to her room that way.  At this hour, sneaking in seems like a wise move.  Saw will still expect her to be up and off at a normal time, but if she can get to her bed before three she can have almost five hours of sleep and still be at Cassian’s place by ninth hour in the morning.

At Cassian’s; not Andor’s.  And she can’t wait, and she hates herself for it.  She can’t pretend any longer that he is just Andor, the target.  She no longer sees anything but Cassian, the man.  She ought to stop now, before she compromises the whole mission. 

She ought to stand up in front of Saw tomorrow when he hands out whatever bread portions he's managed to get hold of, she ought to tell him straight out that she has to be taken off the job, before something goes irrevocably wrong.  She could pretend it’s all going to pieces, that Cassian suspects her, that she’s about to betray them all.  It isn’t going wrong at all, but having it go right hurts Jyn in ways she doesn’t know how to understand.  She has to stop, before she’s sucked into something she can only regret; and will regret missing out on, for the rest of her days, if she does stop.  Bitterness either way, and loss.  But it has to end, before she misses the beat and destroys everything; or before she breaks her own heart, and Cassian’s. 

She’s sat each day, listening to him as he speaks, seeing him standing at his easel, thin dark hands moving deftly and gracefully as he works; hearing him feeling his way into words as he paints and answers her questions.  She’s nudged and prompted him, and he’s described why he loves the sea, why he believes in beauty, why he would stand by a friend no matter what.  She knows now that under the veil of colour he hides behind, he has values that march near to hers, and a particular and mindful freedom that is quite unlike any she’s experienced.  He chooses, where Jyn has always followed orders.  She’s been trying to prod him into looking outside his choices, out into the streets, and all the while finding herself looking in with longing.  His world may be a cave but it’s one full of light, and bright passageways and paths leading to mystery; her street leads in one direction only, to freedom and the furtherance of the rebellion.  And freedom is vital, it is crucial for every being in the galaxy; but not in and of itself alone.  Cassian is creating the things that make freedom worth having.

She had expected to despise him, to feel ever more uncomfortable in his company.  She doesn’t know what to do with the growing respect, the very human liking, that she feels instead.

This isn’t a target; this is Cassian, who has made her perfect kaf and grilled cheese sandwiches, who has not questioned why it is that yet again she’s had no breakfast.  Cassian who has danced with her, who has laughed with her, who has no agenda.  Who has made her happy.

She can’t remember when she was last happy.

She ought to feel so guilty.  Leaving Saw’s shop each morning, she leaves behind duty, adulthood, comradeship and the cause.  She tells herself again that the person she goes to is not free at all, that he’s hiding from his own blind ignorance, pretending that so long as the world is beautiful, it is not subservient to the Empire. 

And someone still has to do her mission.  Someone still has to lever their way into Krennic’s good graces via Cassian’s, someone still has to get those blasted plans.  But she wishes it wasn’t her.  She’s too close to screwing it all up, already; she’s a risk now, to something she ought to put first at all times.

She pays the driver hastily when they arrive at the corner of Belén Street and Long Dock Street.  Hurrying down the narrow lane to Saw’s place she turns into the alley and the rear courtyard. 

There’s light showing at the back of the store.  The shutters are drawn but slivers and cracks show all round them in a grid of brightness.  So much for creeping in unobserved.  Jyn squares her shoulders, takes out her keys and unlocks the door with a confidence she can only fake.  Please, don’t let it be Saw himself; having no breakfast tomorrow will be the least of her problems if he catches her coming home at this hour.

The rear of the shop is a large storage area lined with shelves; rolls of fabric stock are piled around, masking the crates of weapons and explosives the partisans hide there.  In the centre of the room a single chair has been set, and beside it an oxygen cylinder on a wheeled stand.  Her worst luck; it is Saw, and he’s looking directly at the door as she comes in.  His expression is weary and exasperated. 

He sounds even more hoarse than usual when he speaks.  “Jyn!  Child, where have you been?”

Jyn is instantly twice as defensive; she grips her handbag.  “Why do you need to know?  I’m an adult, aren’t I?  We went out for a drink and met some friends of Andor’s.  I had to go along, how am I meant to keep my cover going otherwise?”

“It’s almost third hour,” Saw wheezes hard as he speaks and next second he reaches for the breathing mask.

“You didn’t have to stay up for me!  And you’ve almost used up your spare oxygen; what the hells, Saw?!”  He’s fumbling, a tired old man suddenly, and she starts towards him, meaning to help with the mask.  His eyes are bloodshot; he looks exhausted, physically and emotionally drained; then a flicker of his glance warns her there’s someone else in the room.  Jyn bends solicitously, the dutiful daughter, and her bag slips down in front of her body; one hand goes smoothly to the handle of the hidden vibro-blade in the pocket seam, and she draws the knife with one hand and flicks it open even as she is helping Saw adjust his apparatus with the other.  “Papa, you worry too much, I can take care of myself.”  She gives him a tiny grin, and whirls, falling into a fighting position, the rapier-thin blade poised to lash out.

There are two figures waiting behind her, in the shadow of the open door.  A human male, clad in inconspicuous grey and tan clothes, and a towering, hulking droid.  The man is slim and dark, not much taller than Jyn herself, but he carries himself with the stance of a soldier, the stillness of a hand-fighter waiting to attack.  The droid - Jyn’s breath quickens as she recognises the silhouette – the droid is an Imperial Enforcer.

Enforcer or no, if they’ve been hurting Saw, she’ll do some damage to them before they wipe her.

No-one speaks for a moment, and Jyn glares at the stupidity of this silence.  “Alright, who the hells are you?”

The slim man looks past her, directs his words at Saw.  “Is this the girl, then?”

“I asked you a question!” Jyn barks.

From behind her comes a faint, gentle wheezing; it’s a moment before she recognises Saw’s laughter.  It isn’t a sound one hears much of, these days.  He is chuckling and gulping breaths of oxygen, his amusement sounds more like a gasps of a dying animal than actual human good cheer.  But he is laughing; and so, after a moment, is the stranger.  She turns from one to the other in irritated confusion.

“I do not see that this is so very amusing, Bodhi,” says the droid.  “In case you haven’t noticed, the girl is still carrying a knife and she seems entirely prepared to try and use it.”

“Jyn, Jyn, my child,” says Saw, husky and weirdly affectionate.  “You don’t need to defend me.  This is our informant.  Captain, my adopted daughter, Jyn Erso.  Jyn, this is Captain Bodhi Rook of Alliance Intelligence.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, look who's arrived, just in time for Valentine's Day!


	8. Chapter 8

The slender young man moves forward a few paces, into the light; behind him the droid also steps forward.  Its long arms hang idle, but Jyn knows all too well how powerful Enforcers are, and how long their reach.  She doesn’t budge from her defensive position.

Captain Bodhi Rook doesn’t blink. “Miss Erso.  Pleased to meet you.”

“Same,” she tells him, though it’s clear from the twitch of his lips that he knows she’s not.

He’s good-looking, now she can see him clearly; good-looking and very young, with a kind face, long black hair, huge dark eyes.  He looks deceptively unassuming.  It is, as Jyn knows, a great asset sometimes to be underestimated, thought too small and weak to be a fighter.  Although slender, she can see his frame under the baggy clothing is lean and muscular, and his poise and the silence with which he moves suggest that like her he has profited from that assumption in the past.

He clears his throat, but before he can speak the droid says sourly “Aren’t you going to introduce me, Bodhi?”

Rook’s faint smile strengthens.  “Of course.  I forgot.  This is K-2SO.  He’s a reprogrammed Imperial droid.”

“You know perfectly well you didn’t forget,” says the droid.  It doesn’t acknowledge Jyn, despite having solicited the introduction.  She can almost imagine it’s piqued.

“So long as it _is_ reprogrammed,” she says.  “Wouldn’t want to make a mistake about a little thing like that.”

“Oh, I _am_.  I’m a good deal more secure than most humans.  It would be far easier to make a mistake over a little thing like _you_.”

“Don’t mind K,” Rook tells her with a tiny shadow of a grin.  “He tends to say whatever comes into his circuits, it’s a side effect of the reprogramming.”

From the way he’s looking her over as he speaks she suspects he’s assessing her fighting capabilities, just as she did his.  She wonders if he’s reaching the same conclusions.  She’s still holding the blade.  The droid has angled its head towards her with a deliberate emphasis that’s almost flouncy, and “You may as well put the knife away,” says K-2.  “I’m not going to allow you to use it, you know.”

Jyn snorts.  “Charming.”  She straightens, lowering her attack stance and closing up the knife blade smoothly.  “So, what are you doing here?  Saw looks shattered, what the hells have you been telling him?”

“Captain Rook brought me – brought us - a message,” Saw rasps.  She wonders again at the amount of oxygen he’s used up in this one evening.

The Captain’s jaw tightens momentarily.  “Yes, you should get him to show it to you sometime.  Not now, there are more important things to deal with.  But sometime.  It might interest you.”

“What was in this message, then?  What’s so damned serious you came here in the middle of the night to deliver it?”

“It concerns your mission,” Saw tells her.  “Which has just become a great deal more urgent.  A very great deal.  I trust that isn’t going to be a problem?”

Jyn swallows.  She doesn’t want to have this conversation with Saw at all, much less in front of strangers.  “My mission - it isn’t going well.  He - he isn’t letting me in, the way I’d like.  Why do you think I went out drinking with him and his friends tonight?”  She manages to pack more scorn into the words than she’d planned; it sounds almost like self-loathing.  “I have to win his trust, but it’s hard work.  Saw, believe me, it could take months.  If it’s becoming urgent than we need to rethink.”

“We don’t have months,” says Rook, his expressive eyes full of alarm.  “We don’t even have weeks.”

“Look,” Jyn tells him bluntly.  “This is a slow method at the best of times, indirect infiltration always is, you know that.  You know already where this damned secret archive is so why don’t you go for it directly?  Raid it tomorrow, just get the stuff you want if time’s so scarce.”

Rook moves forward sharply, and is suddenly at very close quarters; letting her see the steel in that boyish figure, the soldier hidden inside the slim youth.  “Listen to me, Miss Erso!  This is not a game!”  His face is cold, voice no longer courteous but whiplash hard.  “The Empire doesn’t yet know that we’re aware of their hidden archive.  The moment we attempt a direct strike, they will be; and they’ll move it elsewhere.  If we try that, we have one shot and then we’re finished.  That means an open attack has to be our last resort.  We may still have to fall back on it, but only if you fail.  I know General Draven is planning to infiltrate the official archives at Scarif Base but a big operation like that will take a year or more to set up.  This is our best chance.”

“It isn’t going well,” Jyn repeats.  “I – I’m not sure I can do it.”

“You _have_ to.”

Saw wheezes.  “Child, you told me yesterday that you could so this.  You said Andor was an innocent.  Hopelessly naïf, completely apolitical, those were the terms you used.  What’s changed?  Has he started to suspect you? – do we need to remove him from the picture?”

“No!”  She makes herself stop, breathes in, calms her voice.  “No, he hasn’t a clue that I’m anything more than I appear.”  She can’t tell them how she is starting to envy him; can’t say how she wants to be able to see the world through his eyes for once.  “He’s just – more cautious than I’d expected.  Or maybe he never really lets anyone in.  Superficial people are like that sometimes.”  The injustice of the word stings on her tongue, but she has to say it; whatever she must do, to get out of this mission before she compromises it, or herself, beyond saving.

“Work harder!” says Saw.  “Make him _want_ to let you in!  Damn it, Jyn, why do you think I chose you for this job?  Play him!  Seduce him!”

“And do it quickly!” Rook adds emphatically.

“Why all this fuss about being quick suddenly?”  She’s angry; because she’s on the rack, she’s over the fire.  To have to seduce Andor is now the worst thing she can imagine, because she can imagine doing it so easily.  Can picture herself touching him, wanting to touch him again.  Force alive, yes, it would be so easy to do!  But she’s already betraying him with every day she spends in his company, and to want him is only to betray him more.  “Why the rush?  What did this message of yours really say, Captain?”

She watches Rook’s eyes slide from her to Saw and back while he calculates; what to say, or how much, one or the other.  He bites his lip.  She waits.  He decides.  His voice is very quiet when he speaks again.

“My source – one of the scientists working in the Imperial Weapons Research programme – was executed for treason a few days ago, along with his entire team.  That means they know there was a leak from that section; we don’t know how much more they know, I had to get out of there to save myself, I couldn’t stay around long enough to find out.  And yes, Miss Erso, I do know all about how slow this kind of mission can be.  I’ve been working undercover as a cargo pilot for over two years now, solely in order to make contact with this one source and win his trust.”

He’s staring intently at her.  It’s a compelling gaze, no doubt of that; she knows herself seen and analysed minutely by the intelligence in those black eyes.

“He trusted me, and now he’s dead,” Rook says.  “And the Empire knows the project has been compromised.  The last intel I had from him was that the battle station is now complete and they are preparing for a test firing.  A demonstration of what it can do.  I was told to expect it within days.  And that is why we have no more time now to be patient and play the long game.  I’m sorry.” 

He looks away abruptly as though meeting her eye is less easy than it was just seconds ago.  Jyn’s hair prickles at the sudden tension in him.  Why is he apologising to her?  What more is he not saying?

“Is that everything?” she demands, and he looks back after a moment.

“The – the rest of the message was – personal.  I think – my source knew his time was up.  He wanted me to – to tell his family he did it all for them.”  There is an audible huskiness in his voice as he finishes and once again he looks away from Jyn.

They were friends, she thinks.  Not just contacts.  He and this scientist, this Imperial who betrayed his masters.  This is what it looks like, knowing you’ve brought someone you like and respect to their death.

This is what they want me to do to Cassian.

She swallows down the fear and anger that rise in her throat.  “it sounds as though you were friends.  I’m sorry.”

“’Sorry buys no blasters’” Saw quotes angrily.  “Jyn, if everything Captain Rook has told me is true, once this weapon is activated the Alliance is going to panic.  They’ll scatter and run.  The only chance we have is to destroy it as soon as possible, before it can be used.”

Rook says “I came to Saw with this information because I knew he would act on it.”

“And the Alliance would not?”  Jyn counters.  “Surely they would”-

Rook is raising his eyes heavenwards but before he can speak the droid says acidly “The Alliance just dithers.”

“K…” A warning tone.

“I’m only quoting you,” K-2 responds.  “The Council dithers and bleats, and Draven plots and complains, and no-one _does_ anything.  That’s what you said.”

Captain Rook meets her eye again and gives a tiny, rueful huff of humourless laughter.  “Yes, that’s what I said.  To put it slightly more fairly, the Council likes to discuss problems until they can come to a consensus.  But they’ll never find consensus over something like this.  One of the things you have to accept in my line of work is that sometimes decisions have to be taken and people have to act, even if the official authorisation isn’t yet forthcoming.  Sometimes action is more important than words.  I knew I could trust the partisans to understand this, since that’s what caused your rupture with the Alliance in the first place.  You’ll take the necessary action and not care what the Council thinks of you for it.”

Jyn is about to snap something ill-tempered in reply when the full import of that strikes her.  She shuts her mouth again, turns to Saw.  “So after all that, this – this isn’t going to buy you back into their good graces?”  No wonder he’s in such a state, eyes red as if from crying, throat torn sore by his struggle to breathe.  “I thought you said you could come in from the cold if we completed this mission?  Saw!” 

“Child, child, hush.  Destroying the Empire is far more important in the end than helping one angry old man.  I’ll gladly lay down my life and save the dream, sooner than save my own skin at the cost of losing this fight.” 

“But, Saw – please! – can’t we save both?”  She hates that she’s having to say this in front of the rebel captain and his sneering droid.  But Saw can’t just give up like this! – not Saw, now when he’s all the family she has left, him and the cause…

“We still can, if you complete your mission in the next few days!  Get Andor to take you to see the Archives, get him out of the way, find the files and get them here so Captain Rook can do the rest.  Please, Jyn, dearest child, I’m counting on you!”

She’s trapped; caught between betrayal of her oldest loyalties or betrayal of the new.  She can’t save everyone.  And in the end, as Saw just said, the cause has to come first.  She bends her head in acknowledgment; says simply “I’ll do my best.”


	9. Chapter 9

It’s another sunny morning, and Cassian has less of a headache than he expected.  His legs are stiff though, and his feet hurt from all that dancing.  Brilliant early light falls across his room from the un-shuttered window and the dust specks dance in stripes of sun and shadow.  He rolls over, the cotton sheets tangling round his legs, and fumbles for the chrono on the floor by the bed.

Damn it, it’s only just after seventh hour.  He didn’t get home till nearly three; how can he feel so bright and cheerful on a scant four hours of sleep?

That was a wonderful night.  He tries to navigate through the nuances of happiness and gets lost, remembering too many things; so many moments of smiling and dancing, holding Jyn, watching her unfold and blossom.  Feeling her body against his, her hand clasped in his; the sensation of her breath on his neck in a slow dance.  Seeing her feet beating time beside his in that last crazy chario.  Her laughing face looking back at him as the tuk-tuk drew away down the darkened street.

Well.  So he’s crazy.  Can he really have fallen in love like this, on a bare week’s acquaintance?  He cannot wait to see her again.  He can’t remember when he was last this happy.

Since he’s very wide awake now and his brain is practically singing with the morning, he gets up and heads into the refresher.  When he peers at himself in the mirror, his eyes are just a little bloodshot; he’s looked far worse, and after far less happy evenings.  And the memory of dancing with Jyn could carry him through worse yet. 

He pisses and showers, wanders back into the main room, puts on a pot of kaf to brew while he rummages up some clean clothes and gets dressed.  It’s still not yet eight, and she won’t arrive till nine or more.  He strolls into the studio with a mug of hot black kaf and looks at his unfinished painting.  The light and the colours are going well; it’s coming together so beautifully from yesterday’s session.  A huge grin plasters itself across his face.  This is going to be as good as anything he’s done.  When did he get the chance of so much luck?  When did he ever deserve something so miraculous?

Yes, he’s crazy, yes, it’s all a miracle, it’s just one more marvel in this perfect spring.

He opens the window wide, and sits on the ledge looking down at the square.  Less than a week, since he sat here on the first morning, watching for Jyn to arrive.  How long ago that seems already; and even then, he thinks, he knew she was something special.

Oh, he is a fool.  But there’s nothing for it but to love and live these moments of foolishness, live in the bliss they are and the knowledge that they will pass and grow, will become something else; the knowledge that for now, today, it’s just the crazy first days.  It’s all love and sunshine and his heart singing in his breast like a quoriol.

Out in the square the slanting morning light strikes through the last dawn shadows, cutting a long oblique from the mouth of the easternmost street.  A street cleaner is emptying the line of garbage containers one by one, and the inevitable beetles scuttle away.  White birds fly by and wheel round to settle on the grass one by one. 

On one of the benches by the palm trees there are two rough sleepers.  He watches them, glad for them that the weather is mild at this time of year, angry that in prosperous Coronet City people are still reduced to this.  One is half upright, lounging slumped back against a tree trunk, the other on their side on the bench, head pillowed on the first sleeper’s thighs.  It looks as though they might be lovers.  The seated one has on a festival head-dress like a colourful set of montrals; she looks almost like a Togruta. 

Cassian blinks and stares, and then starts to smile.  She _is_ ; it’s Mayneta.   The man sleeping in her lap is Tivik.

His first thought is that he cannot imagine what they’re doing; then, that they look very contented; and perhaps Tiv’s inveterate flirting has finally paid-off, with the one female who won’t take any of his bullshit.  The more he thinks about it, the more the idea amuses and pleases him.  Tiv and May, eh?  Perhaps love is in the air all over.

Mayneta opens her eyes as he is watching.  She looks down immediately, and her expression is unmistakably fond.  Then she throws her head back, yawning widely, and meets Cassian’s eye.  A momentary freeze and she shrugs, grins down at Tiv’s sleeping head, looks up again; raises one hand to mime lifting a cup and drinking.

He leans out and calls “You want some kaf?” and she nods, with a beam that shows her teeth.

It takes a few minutes to find and wash a couple of spare mugs.  When Cassian glances out of the window again Tivik is sitting up, yawning and stretching, sneaking one arm round May’s waist. 

Cassian chuckles and picks up his keys.  He carries their drinks carefully down the stairs.  At the street door he has to stop and set one mug down to free a hand for the locks.  As he straightens he suddenly sees there’s something pushed in to the topmost of the old fashioned land-mail slots on the wall; a large envelope, fine cream-coloured paper, with his name on the front in what is surely hand-written calligraphy.

He stares; reaches out after a moment to take it.  It’s stiff, the contents must be card or board; it’s too thick to fold in half and stuff in his pants pocket, and he has to tuck it under his arm before going out into the square.

Tivik looks a wreck, but an astonished and happy one; he’s bleary-eyed and his hair and clothes are an unmentionable tangle.  He greets Cassian cheerfully.  “Wotcha, mate!  Sleep well?”

“Thank you, yes.”  Cassian offers the mugs.  “I brought you kaf.  You look like you need it…”

“Aww, you kriffer, yeah!”

Mayneta by contrast looks as fresh as a green and white flower, the only suggestion of tiredness a faint violet-blue stain around her large eyes.  She wraps a long arm over Tivik’s shoulders and he turns to look up at her in awed adoration.  They sit drinking peacefully, Tiv alternately yawning and nuzzling into May’s neck while the morning light pours into the square and gilds the palms and the hurrying commuters.

“Good kaf…”

“Thank you, May.”

“So, does Princess Jyn like your kaf, then?  Likes a bit of cream with it, does she?”

Mayneta laughs.  “Even coming from you, little peach, that’s disgusting!”

“Aww, Empress, you know what I mean!”

She shows her teeth at him and then goes for a kiss.

It’s good to see Tiv so happy, and so bowled over by happiness, so astonished that his year-long crush on the beautiful Togruta has been reciprocated.  Cassian isn’t so sure he wants all of the details, though, so when they start joking about the many uses they found for the benches in the square last night, he quickly interrupts, waving the envelope in front of them before their humour can get too graphic.  “Look at this – isn’t it amazing?  Real land-mail.  It must be years since I had anything actually delivered like this.”

“Swanky,” agrees Tivik.  “What is it?”

“I didn’t open it yet.  I kind of don’t dare.  I mean, what the hells can it be?”

“Hah!”  Mayneta reaches to her belt and produces a tiny clip that springs open with a touch; it’s a vibro-blade no thicker than a pencil, the edge glinting like an insect’s wing.  “Pass it over.”  She tweaks the envelope from Cassian’s grip while he’s still staring at the razor-like knife in surprise, and slits the top neatly.  “There you are.  Bet it’s something to do with your commission.”

“Ah – thanks…  Do you always carry that thing?”

“Of course!  You think I’m going to go around unarmed like a human?  A girl like me, out here in the big city?  Really, Cass!”

She flicks the blade closed and vanishes it deftly into the belt clip again.  Tiv chuckles.

“You’ll unzip anyone who bothers you, won’t you, Empress?  Unzip them through the guts, eh?”

“Only in self-defence,” May says coolly.  She leans in to give him another savage kiss.  Cassian hastily turns away to pull the contents out of the envelope and study them assiduously. 

It’s a thick rectangle of ivory card with gilded deckled edges, covered with more of the same superb calligraphy.

“So, what is it?” Tiv asks smugly, after several snarling breathless minutes behind him.

He ventures a glance at them.  May giggles, a sound he’s never heard before, and releases the grinning Tivik slowly from a tangle of arms and lekku.

“It’s an invitation,” Cassian says.  “To a ball, at the Museum.  I’m invited, as this year’s prize-winner.  So yes, you’re right.”

“You’re gonna go, yeah?”

“I – I suppose I’d better, yes.”  It’s surprising just how unappealing the prospect is; an evening in formal dress, playing the role of Director Krennic’s smiling protégé, should have seemed like a treat.  It’s the perfect opportunity to network with some of the most important people in the Imperial Fine Art world.  But it will be uncomfortable.  As the recipient of the Memorial Prize he’s clearly not just asked but expected to put in an appearance.  It feels oddly like being given orders.

And the ball is next week.  Does the Director think he’s going to be able to conjure full evening dress out of nowhere?  Do he even realise that until the prize money arrived Cassian was living on stale vegetables and portion-bread?      

But there are so many useful contacts to be made, if he just goes along with this.  Not to mention a chance to go behind-the-scenes, which isn’t that common an opportunity.  The ball is at the historic Corellia Archives, and they’re not open to the general public.  There will be amazing art on the walls, the mirror-walled Chamber of State is famous…  He can’t miss an opportunity like this.

Where on earth is he going to get evening dress from, in less than a week?  It’s a puzzle.  It’s a pain in the neck.  And he needs a plus-one, too.

As if reading his mind, Tiv says cheerfully “You can take your Princess.  Little Jyn’ll love it!  She liked dancing.”

Would Jyn enjoy it, he wonders?  He knows that part of his own discomfort comes from the conversations he’s had with her over the last few days.  He’s thought more about his compromises, has felt less good about how necessary compromise is for his career, since he began discussing things with her.  He’s certainly got the impression she doesn’t favour the Empire.  An evening as the guest of one of the most powerful Imperial institutions on Corellia; would she really get any pleasure out of that?  Of course he’d love to dance with her again; and the thought of Jyn in a ball-gown is delightful.  Something filmy, that clings in all the right places, and can be removed easily and without too much undoing of tight corsetry…

“I’ll – I’ll ask her,” he says cautiously, driving away the thought of Jyn turning sensuously under his hands, Jyn divesting herself of some gauzy and silvery slip of clothing.  He feels his face grow hot.  “She might like it.”

He looks up as the others smile at him; and she’s coming across the square towards them.


	10. Chapter 10

The invitation is like a tickle in the back of his mind as he follows Jyn upstairs.  A ball – another evening with her – an evening at just about the smartest and most desirable social event in Coronet City – but dancing for the Empire and eating their food, drinking their wine…  An itch that will rip to bleeding if he scratches it.  He keeps the card and the crisp envelope tucked away under his arm, and throws both into the main room, onto the bed, as soon as they are inside the apartment.  Shuts the door on them as though on an awkward secret.

Jyn is standing in the middle of the studio, not looking at him.  She looks tired.

She’s always pale, but today there are shadows under her eyes; her glance is strangely flat, as though the world looks less interesting than yesterday.  The colours of her eyes seem to shift less than usual when she turns towards him in the light.

She accepts a mug of kaf and stands drinking it, looking at the unfinished painting.  Even her hush is different from normal.

“Jyn?  Are you okay?”

She looks round; her face is so guarded as to seem almost sad.  “Yes, of course.  I’m just tired, that’s all.”  She looks far more than just tired.  Cassian starts to move to her, and stops as she takes a half-step back.

He swallows an irrational anxiety.  “Did you – did your papa hear you come in, last night?  I hope you weren’t in trouble?”

A faint laugh.  “No, of course not.  I just – I didn’t sleep very well, when I got home.”

“You didn’t drink much…  Too much excitement?” 

It sounds idiotic, the kind of thing you’d say to a child, and Jyn says “Something like that,” as she turns away.  Her tone shuts the enquiry off as uninteresting.  She studies the painting.  “So, is it going well? – are you happy with it so far?”

“Yes! Yes, very happy.”  He joins her by the easel, smiling at her in little sidelong glances, trying to get her face to brighten.  He points out details he’s particularly pleased with, nuances of colour, places where forms echo one another across the picture plane.  But each time he looks over at her, Jyn’s eyes are distant, her whole demeanour withdrawn.

Something is terribly wrong.  Cassian watches her empty gaze in alarm.  Something inside her is shut, today, against him and against life; and he does not understand.

 All he can think is that she went home last night to an explosive row. This isn’t the quiet Jyn he’s used to; she’s always been cloistered but now something in her is muted and locked.  And she won’t tell him what happened; he can’t help he if she won’t talk to him.

He wants to reach for her hand.  Disciplines himself to hold back, let be, to allow her to deal with this.  If he gets angry about her family treating her like a child, but then expects her to mould her moods to him, how is he any better than them?  How is her any more her friend than this cryptic adoptive father?  If Jyn is bullied at home, all the more reason to make sure she is not, here; to make sure that here at least she can be in a place of freedom.

She looks round at him suddenly.  “I was wondering if you’d decided what you want for the other piece you’re going to do.”

“Ah – well…”  She’s got her head on one side, she’s contemplating him as if he were a stranger.  He feels his brows crease with anxiety.  This is and isn’t Jyn; it’s the Jyn he’s seen inside, and she isn’t the Jyn he thought he was coming to know.  He stumbles for words.  “Ah – for the third piece, I want to work on a larger scale, a scene with a whole group of people.  It came to me last night, when we were dancing together.”  The appeal to memory produces a bare echo of a smile.  “The real beauty of the streets,” Cassian says, his voice hollow “Is in all the peoples of the city living together in harmony.  I want to – I want to show them that.  Make them see it.  They pretend it isn’t there but if I put you in the centre of a crowd, all races, all species – I was thinking maybe a carnival scene – everyone united and happy…”  He’s sure he would never have thought of the idea without her; without those probing questions of hers, the way she’s shaken him, so gently, on the foundations of his work.  Before he met Jyn he wouldn’t have dreamed of trying to show Director Krennic and his board of Museum worthies the beauty they don’t want to see. 

She hardly reacts.  He’d thought she would recognise what he’s saying; had thought she might even be pleased.  It means nothing to her, that she’s helped him open his eyes to the vision beyond vision.  She’s shut him out. 

“What about the second painting?” she asks.

“Ah – I’m still thinking about it” –

“Would you still like to do a nude?”  Her expression is calm to the point of challenge, as though she’s daring him to care.  “I’d be okay with that, you know.”  And with that, suddenly, she smiles.  It’s a terrifying, reluctant smile, awkward and afraid, the smile of someone horribly shy. 

_What has been done to you?  What has made you afraid of this? – afraid of me?  I would never, never hurt you._

The fact of what she’s offering and the unhappiness with which she offers sit so ill alongside one another that he stands gaping.  Hell, yes, he still wants to paint her; even in all this confusion he can’t avoid that.  The thought of her slim body unveiled is still shamefully tantalising.  But this feels so wrong, and as he struggles to quantify it, the only word that comes again is afraid. 

She opened up too much last night.  She regrets letting him see her happy.  Regrets happiness itself; or no longer wants to know it with him. 

He hadn’t realised how much was within reach, until now when it recedes.  She regrets being with him. 

His voice comes out dry.  “Yes, of course, I’d love to, but – but – only if you’re sure…”

“I’m sure.”  She sounds off-hand.  “We could start today if you’d like.”

“I – I ought to finish the first one.”

“Whatever works for you.” Jyn sits down at the window as usual. Her face is as calm as a stone. The soft morning light falls across her figure, everything he’s been loving and worshiping for the last week, the beauty and the dream, a wistful woman looking out at the world. But Jyn at the heart of the vision is now coolly detached.

He wants to go to her, gather her hands in his, beg her to tell him what’s wrong, what did he do, what happened?  He turns away, breathing too fast, and checks over his brushes, refills the solvent and oil holders.  His hands hover above the rack of paints.  It’s impossible to choose colours, he has no idea what he’s looking at.

When he looks at Jyn she hasn’t moved.  Her eyes are unfocussed, looking through him.

Her skirt is hanging wrong, draped completely differently from usual.  He gestures clumsily in her direction.  “Please,  would you just?” –

She looks up at him with a puzzled air.

“Your skirt – please can you move the folds back to where they used to be?”

“Oh…”  Jyn fiddles with the fabric, pulling it about.  “I’m not sure how it used to be – can you help me?”

Cassian crosses the studio to kneel at her side.  He lifts and adjusts the folds of cotton, acutely conscious that in arranging them he is touching her.  He doesn’t want to intrude; he is stroking and brushing and caressing her legs, her knees, her calves…  In her lap, placid, lie the hands he held in his own only last night.  A few inches from his, just out of reach.  He wants to draw them to his breast and cry over them.  He wants to beg her forgiveness for whatever it is he’s caused to go wrong. 

Her knee is warm beneath the fabric.  Cassian pulls his hand away.  He looks up to see her eyes are on him, immeasurably sad and quiet.  She looks aside instantly.

Which is worse; the thought that she is rejecting him, the thought that she never wanted him, the thought that she is being ordered to turn away against her will?  He stands up hastily.  He has to paint, before he starts to scream in frustration.  He’s never wanted her more, and he’s lost her.

“Right.  Good.  I’ll get going.”


	11. Chapter 11

She used to wonder what it would be like, to be one of those beautiful imperious people who can make others want them and love them, can summon or dismiss admirers like servants.  What can it be to have such power over others?  They’re in all the stories she remembers from childhood; thrilling, romantic beings who glide through life in an aura like the shimmering round a star, a set-apart light like the inner gleam of her kyber crystal necklace.    

When she was a girl she imagined it must feel good; but Jyn has not considered herself a girl for a long time.  She no longer imagines there could ever be romance in her life.  She is a creature with neither beauty nor glamour.  Why Cassian sees anything in her she has no idea; but he does, and she has to use it.  And now Cassian is miserable.  She made him so.  She knows it, and she is both fascinated and torn apart by it.  This, she is sure, is not the power of beauty; the magic of the crystal is not shining in her.

He carries on painting for a long time, silent and intense.  Now and then he stops outright, staring at the canvas, the palette, the brushes in his hand, as if seeing something he hadn’t expected.  Yesterday he never faltered in painting, he was steady and calm, barely so much as glancing at his brushes except to dab up more colour.  Yesterday little flickers of happiness danced across his face all day.  Now there are frowns in their place, and anxious looks, from the canvas to her, back to the canvas, down at the palette and back up.  He sighs.  Sometimes he puts a brush between his lips and holds it for long minutes, as if he’s forgotten he has hands. 

It’s strange to watch his mouth clasping the stained plastic handle, his lips pressing close around it.  She remembers those shapely lips smiling; and imagines them suddenly pressing her skin.  Would Cassian’s kiss be lingering, she wonders, would it be gentle, urgent, overwhelming?  If she’s to seduce him she will have to find out.  If only she didn’t need to; if only she could choose to, instead.  If only she could choose just to look at his mouth and dream of those lips on hers.

He takes the paintbrush out and stares at it again, distracted; a crease of stress comes and goes between his brows and for a sharp moment Jyn wants to break her pose completely, wants to reach out to him and stroke that line away.  Cassian’s mouth turns down hard at the corners when he’s unhappy.  It does that now, the instant he isn’t biting his kriffing paintbrush.  It’s hateful to be the cause of that frown, of that distress; that absence from his work.  All his focus is gone.

He has to want her more than anything, even his art.  She swallows and strangles all thoughts save that.  Feels them revive the instant she looks at him again. 

She’s always known she would get him killed, this good, innocent man whose hands conjure beauty out of the everyday world.  She didn’t know she’d feel the pain too along the way.

Cassian gives a stifled mutter of frustration and throws all the brushes down on the table, and his palette after them.  He rakes both hands through his hair, tearing at it.  A smudge of washed-blue clings to one lock and is smeared back.  He stares at the painting and groans.

“It’s not working...”

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

When he turns her way it’s a battle to remain cool.  She’s not sure how much longer she can feign this unawareness.  He looks as if he’s close to tears; looks like a man seeing his life taken away.

“It’s not working,” he repeats.  “It’s all going wrong, I’m killing it, it’s dying.  I’m dying.”

“What?”  Hells, no! - it can’t be that badly screwed, not that fast, she’s overdone it, he can’t turn suicidal! – “No, Cassian, it can’t be that bad.  You’re – you’re having a bad day, that’s all.  That has to be all, surely?”  Is that too much sympathy?  It is so painful watching him suffer like this; and so confusing.  She’s no longer sure which of her own feelings she’s using and which she is fighting.  “Why not take a break?”

His sigh is practically a snarl.  “A break?  Yeah, the rest of my life!  I can’t paint anymore…”

“But what’s wrong?”

If only he would see through her, break free, instead of looking across at her with eyes that plead silently.  She cannot let up now.   _Be strong, Jyn, trap him, he has to want you more than life_.

“Yesterday,” Cassian says softly “I thought it was all going so well.  I thought I had it all.  I don’t want to lose it.  If I lose my art – Jyn, I would die.  But I – I can’t paint you.”

_No_ , Jyn thinks; _he has to **want** me, not give up on me.  He can’t say that!  I need him to cling to me, crave me, be willing to do anything for me.  Not despair, not lose himself.  Not lose his art._

And then; _if I lost the cause, would I grieve like this? - a part of me would be relieved to be free at last._

The thought slams into her mind with a blank shock like a truck hitting her.  She has no idea what it is to have anything in her life that she cares about so much she would want to die without it.

_I can’t do this to you_ , she thinks in grief.  And stops, eyes widening in horror as she realises she’ s said it aloud.

“It’s not you,” Cassian tells her sadly. “It’s me.  I’m sorry.”

“Why not try something different? – put this on one side, do some drawings instead, maybe?”

His smile is poignant.  “Yes, that’s an idea, I could try that, couldn’t I?”

He pulls a crumpled piece of muslin from the mess under the painting table and throws it over the easel; retrieves a sketchbook and a handful of charcoal, and sinks down cross-legged on the floor.  Stares, again; at the blank pages, at her, at the paper once more.

“What should I do?” Jyn prompts.  “Sit, stand?  Just tell me what to do…”

“Whatever you like.”  Cassian strews the charcoal sticks across the floor around him.  “Stand, why not…  I’ll do some quick studies.  Anything’s worth a try.”

She gets up quickly from the seat and faces him, one hand outstretched.  She can still bring this through, can still win.  She smiles shyly, and his expression becomes even more sad as he looks up at her.  Then he bites his lip and inhales sharply, and looks down for a moment.  He starts to draw.

For half an hour Jyn takes up pose after pose, a few minutes on each; she stands and turns and gestures, and Cassian’s eyes become slowly less emotional as he draws her.  She sits down again, on the floor this time, purposely a little closer to him than she was earlier; then finally lies down, throwing her arms back over her head so that her spine arches slightly and her hips and breasts tilt towards him.  He gives a little unconscious gasp as she stretches out.

“It’s getting hot in here,” he mutters after several minutes more of furious drawing.  His hands are blackened with charcoal dust now.  He rips another wild sketch from the block and throws it aside.

Jyn swallows and moistens her lips; holds his gaze.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“I’m fine.  I just want you to be happy.  Please don’t stop drawing.”

Another sketch, broad rough lines, gestural movements that sweep right from the top of his shoulder.  She’s very close to him now.  She can see the play of muscle under his shirt.  The charcoal makes a dry scratching sound with each stroke, and his left hand scuffles and smears the marks, pushing them further, drawing into the drawing itself.

“Change pose, please?”  His voice is almost harsh.  It’s working.  She had overdone it but he’s regaining focus rapidly now.  Jyn writhes on the studio floor, shifting towards him again; draws her hands in as though to shield herself.  Her pale skirt and blouse are picking up streaks of dust.  Cassian is far dirtier, his hands filthy, face smudged; he runs a hand absently over his chest as he looks at her and leaves a huge stroke of darkness striped down his thin cotton shirt. He draws again, getting up onto his hands and knees to lean into the sketchpad as if he would drive it down into the floor.  He is starting to breathe faster, nostrils flaring as he drives himself.  Jyn finds her own breath quickening in response.  His right hand leaps across the surface of the paper, linked by some alchemy to his eyes moving across her face, her figure; he doesn’t even glance at the drawing until the page is covered with marks, lines and blots so dynamic it’s hard to read anything in them but frenzy.

“Change pose, please!”

She lets one hand reach out to him this time, stretching across the floor; allows her fingers to cup gently as if she were completely relaxed.  Brings the other hand up, to her throat.  Her fingertips feel weirdly cold in the warmth of the studio and she catches her breath as her touch connects with the thong of her necklace.  Then as she shifts her weight the kyber crystal pendant slides across her skin and for the first time it drops out of the neckline of her bodice onto the studio floor. 

It lies on the floorboards, seeming to gather all the light in the room.  It draws her eyes ineluctably; and then as she looks into it, through it, past it, she is released and drawn herself; she can see only Cassian’s eyes, the colour of dark honey-topaz, as trapped by the crystal’s beauty as she is.

A distant memory; her mother’s voice: “Trust in the Force, Jyn”; and with it another thought, clear as a point of light.  What I am doing is wrong.  Without trust, we are nothing.

She stirs and is about to sit up, to do she knows-not what, when Cassian suddenly tears his eyes away; from the crystal, from her, from all the light he can see.  He looks down at his sketchbook and his face contorts.  With a swing of his right hand he slams a blow into the side of the pad, sending it halfway across the floor.  His fist tightens and crushes the stick of charcoal to dust like fragments of darkness. 

He sits back on his heels and looks down at Jyn on the floor, frozen by this sudden flash of violence.  The kyber crystal still lies gleaming between them, and for a second his eyes rest on that before coming to her face.

“I can’t paint you,” he says once more.  “I can’t draw you.” His words are slow even as his breath comes fast and shallow.  “I can’t draw you, Jyn, I can’t capture you.  But I love you.”

He holds out both hands to her, black dust scattering from them.  Jyn is gaping, reeling for words; and suddenly all the strength seems to go out of his spine.  He folds up on himself, head bowed to the floor, filthy hands slack on either side.

_He didn’t even wait for an answer; he said it and then gave up._   Jyn lies staring at him.  His back moves, a tiny twitch like a sob as he inhales.  _He didn’t see the point in even asking if I care._

She braces herself on the floorboards and pushes up into a sitting position, acutely conscious of her pendant swinging, and of the effort it costs to raise her own weight.  Cassian lies slumped in front of her, silent and in pain.

She can’t think.  Everything she thinks she knows is scrambled and torn inside her.  Her hand reaches out to him and it is shaking.  Touch is betrayal; letting go, likewise.  She can see the smudge of paint from earlier, a streak of delicate blue-green, still there in his thick dark hair.  She wonders if he was painting her eyes when he mixed that colour.

“Cassian…”  She didn’t know she was going to speak but nonetheless once again here is her voice, hollow-sounding and soft as fainting.

“I’m sorry,” says Cassian to the floor.  He sounds strangled.  “I’m being ridiculous, I’m sorry” – he suddenly starts to sit up, and the crown of his head connects with Jyn’s outstretched hand.  He freezes momentarily; without looking up he lifts his own hand to hers, as if unable to believe she is touching him.  Their fingers meet, and mesh together.  Cassian straightens with a choking inhalation and looks at her; at her face, at the crystal on her bosom, at their two hands linked.

Jyn draws a single breath.  His hand is warm and dusty in her cold one.  “I’m sorry,” she says in a small voice.

“Jyn…” It’s barely a whisper.

“I’m so sorry, Cassian…”

He shakes his head.  “It isn’t your fault. I get emotional, I’m making a scene, I know” –

“No, it _is_ my fault.  I know it is.  Oh Cassian…”

They are crouching facing one another and the air between them feels alive with spring heat.  Jyn is shaking bodily.  She goes on in a rush “I can’t tell you anything more than that!  I wish I could.  I was so happy yesterday.  But when I got home – please believe me, I wish I could tell you everything, I wish I could tell you what happened but” –

His eyes are changing as she speaks, as though the light were lifting out of them like a storm, and he interrupts hotly. “Did he hurt you?”

“What? – who?”

“Your step-father – adopted father, whatever he is – did he hurt you?  You must tell me if he’s hurting you, I can’t let you stay with someone who” –

Jyn kneels up with a jolt.  Saw, hurt her?  It’s both so wildly wrong and so agonisingly close to the truth.  Impulsively she puts her other hand to his lips.  “No!  It’s nothing like that.”

“Promise me.”  His breath is hot on her fingertips.

“I promise.  I swear to you, Saw has never raised a hand to me.”  If she puts it like that then it isn’t a lie; his disabilities mean he’s pretty much the only member of the cell she’s never sparred with .  “He’s a good man, Cassian.”  Also true, somewhat, or true as far as motives go.  “I promise you, he isn’t punishing me, it’s nothing like that.  It’s just – there’s something else going on at the moment and I can’t talk about it.  I just can’t.  It’s not my secret to tell.”

_Please, please let him think I mean the smuggling._

They’re still face to face, but now he kneels up too; he’s suddenly closer, and taller.  Jyn looks up helplessly into his face, with the sun on her back and its reflected warmth before her blazing off him.  She may have done no more than postpone pain; but she’s desperate, and this was the best she could do in all this confusion. 

“Please, Cassian, don’t give up on me.  On this.  Please.”

Cassian moistens his lips.  “You’re sure he’s happy for you to be here?”

“Yes!”

His right hand moves towards her, a gentle unfinished gesture, and he says hesitantly “And – are _you_ happy to be here?”

She knows that this is her last chance to run, to save him and herself; but in her silence he lifts his hand again, to her shoulder, her throat, her face, slowly.  She wants him to go on touching her, more than anything.  She replies “Yes…” and it’s true, all too sweetly and painfully true.  This is the nearest to happiness she can imagine ever tasting.  Someone trusts her, wants to be with her; and it’s him.

Cassian’s fingers brush along her cheek.  She feels the dust in his touch, and the heat.

His fine lips smile, shyly, and his eyes crease as the smile touches them.  “Oh! – I didn’t mean to mark your face…”

“You have marked me,” Jyn says.  She knows by how much more than just a smudge of charcoal.  She leans forward and up, inside the curve of his arm; hovers at the last and almost shies away, because there is no act now that is not compromised, and all her certainties have been torn as she feared, as she knew, they would be; and Cassian dips his head to her, eyelids fluttering shut on his astonishment.  She cannot go back.  She would not if she could.  She presses her lips to his, tentative, overwhelmed with longing.  The pendant on her breast feels heavy, gathering all the heat and the glow of the room.  Cassian’s hands find her, so gentle she wants to tremble at his touch; her waist, her head, he’s drawing her close and holding her, fingers spreading tenderly across her skin, round the curve of her skull.  His pulse beats, and hers is with him; his warm, warm lips are parting on hers; and her arms go round him, clinging to the thin hard strength and the hope, the thought of beauty, that she had never known she needed.

It’s no longer clear where she begins, where he ends.  They are heartbeats resonating against a crystal, echoing one another in unison; they are bodies pressed so close together there is no air between, there is no time, no space.

Reality comes back in little things.  The tickle of his beard, the sudden electric heat of his tongue stroking hers.  Her breathlessness.  The sensation of rough, un-ironed cotton sliding in her hands, moving over his skin.  His shirt rides up and she feels the structure of ribs and spine, the physical certainty of him, under her palms, alive.

Cassian is working one hand into her hair now, teasing it out of the loose bun, stroking it out over her shoulders.  His other hand is low on her waist.  Their contact pools into distinct islands of sensation, mouths and hands, the wave-beat of his heart.  She leans into him, yielding, wanting more, her breath quick and volcanic now.

They are both gasping for air when Cassian finally gently breaks off the kiss. He searches her face and at last he begins to smile; not just the hesitant shyness of earlier but an astounded beaming grin that lifts one side of his mouth first and then the other, till his whole face is alight.  He brings both hands round to cup her face.  “Jyn…”

“Hold me,” she says shakily. _Please don’t stop, just let this last a few seconds more, just let me forget who I am and what I must do, for a moment longer…_

“I’m putting all this dirt all over you, I’m so sorry” –

“Please just hold me.”

She leans into him again and he wraps both arms around her and does not let go.  Jyn sighs and rests.  She can just about get her chin on his shoulder if he bends over her a little, and she can lean her head against his and press herself to him as he holds her.  Safe, just for once safe, in the arms of someone who doesn’t care what she is or what she’s done.

She’s lied and cheated and played a false game to win this moment, but for whatever time it lasts she’ll know what it is to be loved; and to love.

She turns her face into his throat and presses a tiny kiss there, just under his jawline.  Cassian hugs her tighter and she feels his lips on her  hair.

She wants to fall and never hit the ground; never to have to face what will come after these moments, after this day.   The future ought to be an empty path for them now, and it is not; a hiding place, when there is none in the world, a sea coast washed clean of everything save they two kneeling and holding one another.  There is no chance for them; but she cannot let go of her joy at knowing him.

_Take me with you, take me into your happiness.  Just for this one day._

She lifts her head and seeks Cassian’s lips blindly, and his mouth comes down on hers again.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter responsible for the "eventual smut" tag... Heartfelt thanks to rapidashpatronus for beta-ing sevices!

Cassian is breathing so fast he’s dizzy.  All the blood rushing away from his brain probably isn’t helping with that, either.  He’s hot and hard, almost shaking with shock and delight.  Jyn clings to him, so tightly he can feel her heart racing.  It’s unreal; and entirely real, it’s true life, happening right now.

Every time he touches her he’s leaving thick grey smudges of charcoal wherever his hands go.  Pretty soon Jyn will be even filthier than him; and if he doesn’t get himself under control he’s going to wind up fucking her right there on the studio floor, in the middle of today’s discarded drawings.

He doesn’t want to do that; not with Jyn, not rough and greedy, not on a dirty floor.  She’s too good, too gentle, too lonely and confused.  He’s already taking advantage; but he’ll make it up to her.  He wants to make love to her the way she deserves, to be slow and tender; everything she needs, everything she’s never known.  Her body presses against his, yielding and desperate, and he thinks of their conversations, of her happiness and her unhappiness, her resolute refusal to betray her papa even when his secrets are harming her.  He’ll do anything to protect her from more hurt.  She’s given him so much, with her quiet thoughts and quieter beauty; she’s unsettled and remade his whole life.  He can’t remember feeling such gratitude, or such tenderness.  For a moment he remembers being a frightened child clinging to his father, seeking safety in that loving strength.  There’s no safety for either of them, and his heart breaks.

He’ll be the one who gives as much as she’s given, the one who doesn’t take and take for granted.  He’d like to bend her back and kiss every inch of her body slowly.  He makes himself break off instead and draw back from the sweetness of her mouth. 

Jyn’s breath is as ragged as his.  Blue-green eyes search his face, as if seeking the light in him that he has found in her.

He hunts for words; his voice is a bare whisper. “Jyn, is this what you want?”

Her smile is small and real for a moment before she closes her eyes and buries her face against his neck again.  “Yes.  I want you.  I need you…”

Her hands are right inside his shirt, pushing the fabric up so much it’s half off his back, and she is kissing the side of his throat again.  He wonders if he’s strong enough to pick her up and carry her bodily into the next room.  Only one way to find out.

Cassian draws back and slides one arm under her shoulders.  Jyn leans into him with a tiny shadow of laughter.  She disentangles herself from his shirt long enough to put both arms round his neck like a bride.  She strokes his hair, scanning his eyes for a moment as though to memorise their colour.  He bends and scoops her up, and she lays her head on his shoulder as he carries her into the other room. 

The bedroom window faces west; even now, in late morning, the whole room is still shaded.  It feels cool after the sunny studio.  The bed is unmade but at least there are only a few dishes waiting to be washed, and the floor is clean.  It’s the first time Jyn has come in here; apart from sitting in the studio the only other room she’s entered is the tiny bathroom that leads off the landing.  She’s shown no curiosity at all about the rest of the apartment but now as he lowers her gently to her feet he’s surprised to see her look around with interest.  There’s a sweet mischief in her voice for a moment as she says “It’s really quite tidy…”

He chuckles.  “Not going to lie, it isn’t always!”

For answer Jyn laughs and, going on tip-toe, she pulls him down into another kiss. 

Standing, the difference in their heights is more pronounced; but kissing her feels just as good as it did when they were kneeling, and he lets his hands explore and caress, stroking the hollow of her spine, the curve of her waist, moving slowly lower.   The roundness of her hips is delicious; he spreads his fingers, pulling her closer.  Soft breasts press against his chest, soft flesh gives under his fingertips; suddenly the cool slender Jyn is all curves and heat and breathlessness.  She bends, arching her back as he kisses her more deeply, and when he breaks off again she gives a little moan of protest.

Her eyes are half-closed.  Cassian presses his mouth to the side of her long neck, kissing down her jaw and across her throat, her bare collarbones and pale décolleté.  He sucks on her skin and slowly bites and nips at her until she giggles through her panting. 

“Oh, please, ohh, please…”

She’s worked her hands inside his shirt again to stroke his back.  Now they slide down, to the waistband of his pants and then cautiously lower, tracing the shape of his ass.  He rocks his hips forward appreciatively, pressing his hardness against her.

Suddenly she squirms, and wrestles away from him.  He jerks back at her movement, releases her in a wired buzz of alarm.  If she’s changed her mind he’s going to have to sort himself out in the ‘fresher before he can even think straight, much less pick up and carry on painting.  His hands fall back from her body.  But Jyn doesn’t move away; she is pulling her blouse off over her head.  Her expression as she emerges is poignantly defiant, as though arousal and hope alike are unknown characters to her, more likely to betray than bring joy.

She drops the crumpled garment at her feet and puts both hands to her back to unhook her bra.  Her eyes are locked on Cassian’s and she bites the side of her lip for a second.  He’s panting like a runner, dizzy with oxygen and need.  It’s wrong somehow for her to be undressing while he just stares; he can’t stand and watch as though she were putting on a show for him.  He crosses his hands and hauls his shirt off quickly, awkward with shyness; and as he discards it she’s half-naked and already untying the drawstring of her skirt.  He cannot stop himself from staring; at the long neck and narrow shoulders he knows so well, at the crystal point shining between her small high breasts.  Rosy nipples, alabaster skin.  His mind lists the colours he will use when he paints her body and their names are a prayer.

She steps out of her skirt, her underwear; stands still, breathing slightly fast and trying to smile.  Petal lips, thin hands; hands that hesitate, reaching out for him.  He stumbles forward two paces, into her arms.

Heaven only knows what she must make of him; he’s nothing much to look at, all long thin limbs and tense muscle, skinny and dark, just sketchy hair on his chest and in a faint line down his belly.  A Festi string bean of a man.  But Jyn presses herself to him and reaches up to cradle his face between her hands.  Her smile is a sunrise, the light growing by the second.

“Cassian,” she whispers. “Cassian, Cassian…”

Two more steps; and her calves are against the wooden frame of the bed.  She glances back, then up at him again, and climbs carefully backwards into the unmade tangle of sheets and quilt.  Her eyes are shining, at their most sea-green in the shadows.  He clambers onto the bed after her and leans to kiss her mouth again, and across her neck, her shoulder, her breast, as she pulls him down to cover her at last.

_This is how people die having sex_ , Cassian thinks helplessly, sucking a hard red nipple into his mouth, hearing Jyn’s voice break above him in little birdlike cries.  Her hands clutch his hair, tear at his back.  _This is how people die.  This is how I want to die_.   He knows that once he enters her he isn’t likely to last for long, he’s at a pitch of tension that feels like the border of death and the edge of heaven in one.  He wants to see her falling apart before he goes over that cliff.  He works down her body, kissing and worshipping; those small soft breasts, and the hard frame of her ribcage beneath, the way her stomach gives under his chin, the way her diaphragm vibrates when she laughs breathlessly.  He pushes the heel of one hand gently into her belly, just above the pubic bone, rubbing with a circular motion, and her laughter tails off into a moan of pleasure.  Her thighs part; and he kisses slowly up to one knee and back down, and finally into the dark hair between.

Jyn is starting to whimper now as he explores her with his lips and then his tongue.  She tastes salty; sweet and bittersweet at once, her wetness tender and fleshy.  When her breath catches sharply he finds himself smiling in astonishment.  He repeats that touch, that pressure, licking, sucking, until she’s babbling weakly and he feels her shuddering on his tongue.  His fingers gripping her spread thighs; and she thrusts against him, heels braced in the faded blue sheets; she wails once and then shouts his name joyfully.  He holds the pressure while she cries out and comes, and comes; thinks again, _this is how I want to die_.

It’s only when the last spasms and shivers of her orgasm have faded and her grip on his hair is almost slack that he allows himself to work back along her body again.  He’s near to bursting now, but coming up and seeing her flushed face, the way her eyes glow as she looks at him, is unforgettable.  She murmurs wordlessly, reaching for him, her hands at his waist are pulling at the fastening of his trousers, freeing him, pushing the fabric down over his ass and hips.  When she touches him he nearly unravels.  She guides him deftly inside her and holds him while he pants, trying not to explode; then her hands spread across his ass, bringing him in deeper.  It’s like moving in tight wet velvet; he sinks into her heat slowly, savouring the moment before everything is lost. 

Jyn raises her legs and wraps them round his waist; her eyes slide half-closed and her lips part, she says his name and then “Yes, yes…” and he thrusts deeper, murmuring broken words, breathing out the gasp that is her name.  He wants to come apart (wants it so much, knows it’s so near, it’s like an explosion held back by nothing but air) and he wants never to come (because this moment needs to last, needs to be written on the body’s memory like the snows of his childhood, his father’s arms, the first taste of sweetness, the first time of everything beautiful and alive).  Jyn’s face below him is framed by the dark silk of her hair flung across the pillow; there’s a smudge of charcoal still on her cheek and her smile broadens each time he moves inside her.  He’s trying to keep his weight stable and his pace as steady and slow as can be borne.  Trying to make it last.  But each thrust brings him closer and he can’t stop, she’s smiling up at him, secret and satisfied, whispering “Yes, yes, Cassian…” and Cassian buries himself in her and comes with a long moan.  His arms aren’t strong enough suddenly, he falls on her breast, clinging to her, pulling half out as the aftershocks of orgasm leave his dick exquisitely sensitive in the cling of her body.

He’s panting raggedly and repeating “My love, my love, _mi_ _amor_ …” over and over.

A tiny fraction of his brain says he should move, should lift himself off her – _your weight, Cassian, you’ll crush her, you come in five minutes’ flat like a pig-faced boor and now you lie in a heap on her, move, man, move_ – but Jyn holds him tightly and like him she’s murmuring endearments, stroking his body as though memorising the shape of each muscle.  He hasn’t the strength to fight her embrace.  His limbs are leaden, he’s as weary as if he’s had to fight to the point of collapse.

“Cassian, my dear, my dearest…”  She nuzzles at his neck as he tries to bunch his arms up and move.

The afternoon sunlight is just entering the room; a narrow band of it paints bright gold across the wall above the bed.  Cassian raises himself with an effort and slumps down again at her side with a sigh; he strokes Jyn’s cheek as she curls against him, and she lays her head on his breast.

There’s something digging sharply into his ribs, a hard diamond point; and suddenly she says “Hold on,” her tone comically matter-of fact, and lifting herself up again she fishes out the crystal pendant from where it was caught between them, and tosses it round to her back.  It slides down again immediately to lie on his shoulder and Cassian laughs quietly.  She settles herself back on his chest with her chin resting on her hands, looking at him.

Her eyes are shining, so bright that for a moment he thinks there are tears; but she just smiles and lays her head down again.  Her fingers play with his collarbones, tracing sinuous lines out to the shoulder and back.  He wraps both arms round her and holds her close.

His hands are resting on her naked back, her bare shoulder; and they are still dark with charcoal.  Every fingernail is rimmed in black.  He’s still leaving smudges as he touches her.

“Oh, I’ve made you so dirty!...”

Jyn giggles, looking up again.  “I think the dirtiness is mutual now, wouldn’t you say?”


	13. Chapter 13

When Jyn smiles broadly, as she is now, there are little creases at the corners of her mouth.  He wants to kiss them until they are imprinted on his lips.  He lies grinning back at her as she lifts herself up again and rests both hands on his chest.  Her crystal moves and swings to hang in the air between them; it glows, and Jyn’s smile is equally luminous.

“You’re the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen,” he tells her.

Her grin widens further.  “No, I can’t be that!  Silly…”

“Ah, but you are.  All the flowers, all the views I paint, they’re pretty, some of them are _very_ pretty.  You’re _beautiful_.  You’re like the sea, Jyn, all your colours, always changing; look at you, all your depths and your lights, shadows moving into sun…”

“Thank you.  I know how much you love the sea.”

“I love you.”  She quirks an eyebrow at him, her face almost rueful for a moment, and he chuckles.  “Laugh at me if you like, _mi_ _amor_.  I know we hardly know one another.  But I know my own mind.  Nothing will ever be the same because of you, and I love you.”

“In spite of that?”

“Because of it.  You walk into my life like a beautiful fire and you burn down all the walls I’ve built, you say _look outside, remember everything you’ve left behind_ – and I do remember.  It may not do my career any good” – which is an understatement, but he’ll think about that tomorrow – “But I know I’ll be a better artist.  I hope, a better man, too.”

Her expression has been going more still, more quiet, as she listens.  He finishes in slight anxiety.

“I love you, Jyn.”

She’s blinking fast and a sniff gives it away; her melancholy is real and, yes, those are tears threatening.  But next moment her smile begins to shade back shyly.  “And I love you,” she says, real wonderment in her voice.  “Oh Cassian, I love you.  And I know you’re right; nothing will ever be the same.”

Cassian pushes himself up on his elbows and she sits back, looking down at him; he laughs as she runs her eyes over his body appreciatively.  Beautiful Jyn, who likes him, who wants him.  She puts one hand down gently to his ribcage, just her fingertips on his skin; and he’s getting hard again at her touch, he has to gasp for breath at the heat inside him.  He works off his pants completely and kicks them off the end of the bed.  Lies back again, scooping her up and lifting her, and she straddles his hips with a little whoop of amusement.

It would be so easy, just to stay here for the rest of the day; to make love, to lie kissing and talking.  So simple, if this wordless delight were all, this feeling of being at one.  If this could last, if this were the whole world.

Jyn lowers herself onto him and rolls her hips slowly, riding with her head thrown back.

He touches her smooth breasts and she shivers as his palms press against her.

She bends slowly, sensuously, plants brief flickering kisses on his sternum, his collarbones, his throat.

It would be so simple, if this were all the world; if it were only possible to need nothing else in life now but one another, if they might taste and touch and explore the beginning of love together, like this, forever.  If this could be enough.

If he can hold on to that hope, then maybe it will be.  It’s a chance worth taking a risk for.

He lets go of all thought and abandons himself to her body again; to the edge of heaven, and the prayer that this can last.

The sun moves quietly through the room and along the walls, and they make love slowly in the oblique golden light, and sleep at last tangled up in one another as the afternoon draws on towards day’s end. 

Cassian wakes to a pleasant weight on his shoulder and a warmth at his side.  The room is deeply shadowed and when he turns  his head to the left there are bright beads of light visible through the window, close by and spreading out over the city at dusk. He turns back, to look instead at her hand on his ribcage, and her arm softly relaxed in sleep; the dark crease at the elbow, the curves of her shoulder and her bare back receding, foreshortened; the little ridges of the scapulae, the hollow of her waist, two faint dimples just at the rise of her ass.  The long descending curve of one pale flank.  It’s like a landscape in ivory flesh, with bones and firm muscle for hills and valley sides.  She has her head nestled up against his cheek, right in the corner of his field of vision.  Her fine dark hair is lying every which way, tiny glimpses of pink scalp showing here and there; he can see a scant half-moon of cheekbone, an arc of long lashes feathering across it, another just above where the edge of her brow runs.  Such straight, sober brows, such delicate lashes, soft as the finest brush strokes. 

Her breathing is measured and slow, a ghost of warmth touching his skin and passing, then nothing until the next one.  Such deep, sweet sleep.  He lies watching her, watching over her, until it’s too dark to see.

He would have expected that he’d sleep again, too, heaven knows he’s tired himself out this afternoon.  But the dusk falling on Jyn’s sleeping form is too beautiful.  The colours of the room dim gradually through shades of grey pearl and smoke to a muted phthalo blue, to indigo, and softly into night.  The city lights in the window are the only lights he can see; but his eyes adjust slowly, and the glow paints a faint gleam of orange and gold across Jyn’s bare shoulders and his own bony hands. 

Finally she stirs.  His stomach has begun to rumble and perhaps that’s what startles her.  She twitches and is suddenly fully awake and alert, her head swinging up sharply as though it’s she who is on watch.

Her expression is unreadable in the darkness but her immediate tension is not.  Cassian says quickly “It’s me, my love.  It’s only me.”

“Cassian.”  She sounds almost stunned.

“Who else?”

“No-one,” Jyn whispers.  “No-one, no-one ever.”

She flattens herself onto him, clinging on for a moment.  She’s shaking, and he wraps his arms round her tightly, as though his embrace could shield her.

“You stayed,” she says into his neck.

“Well, it _is_ my apartment.”

Jyn gives a tiny huffle of laughter, barely more than a single breath; then even more softly she says “Don’t leave me.”

“I won’t.  I promise.”

They lie quiet for a time before his belly grumbles again and he apologises.  “I don’t seem to be able to stop that, sorry!  Would you like something to eat?”

Her head comes up again at that.  “Yes please!”

“Let me put some lights on and I’ll see what I have…”

 By the time he’s flipped the light switch and pulled his pants on again, Jyn has scooted across the landing into the ‘fresher.  He washes his hands and face in the sink of the cooking unit instead, and sets to work to shred some vegetables and get them cooking.  Spices, beans, plenty of strong cheese, a slice of yesterday’s bread quickly cubed, half a dozen beaten eggs…  The room fills with hot, savoury smells and Jyn, coming back damp-skinned and blooming, inhales appreciatively.  “That smells _good_ …”

“I hope it _is_ good.  There’s some wine in the chiller if you’d like – glasses are on that shelf.”

She shrugs her dusty blouse on again and sits facing him, legs stretched out under the table, as he pours the wine and dishes out the eggs.  One bare foot rubs against his while they eat, but she doesn’t chat; he realises with a proud surprise that she’s enjoying his cooking too much to talk.  The dish is good; he’s made it with smoked hot pepper and the taste always carries an echo of childhood, but Jyn’s enthusiastic wolfing down tells him it’s still good even without the nostalgia value.

She scrapes her plate thoroughly clean and sits back.  “You, mister Andor, are a very good cook.”

“Thank you!  It’s just something my mother used to make when I was little. I’m sure there must be dishes like that in your family.”

Her eyes drop.  “My mama wasn’t much of a cook,” she says after a second.  “She was a geologist, she saw food as fuel.  Plain and simple.”  She looks up at him again with a wistful smile.  “We ate a lot of cookies and milk, bread and cheese, that kind of thing.  And fruit - lots of fruit.”

“I don’t have cookies, I’m afraid, and we just finished the last of the cheese.  But there are some of those grapes, if you’d like?”

Only a week since he watched her popping the shining green spheres into her mouth one after another, and wondered what it would be like to kiss those shapely lips.  At rest, her mouth is half sweet cupid’s bow, half angry pout.  She grins up at him now, all the sweetness, and he stands up and leans over the table to kiss her.  Jyn responds happily but when their mouths part she says “Grapes, please.”  He laughs.

“I’ll get them.  Would you like to top up the wine?”

Turning away from the chiller again, the dish of fruit slippery with condensation in his hand, he notices something white on the floor under the bed, and remembers.  The day’s other activities, the massive sea of joy overwhelming him, between them had driven all thought of Krennic’s wretched ball out of his mind.  “I meant to ask you –“ he bends to retrieve the invitation – “you may hate the idea and it’s fine if you do, but – would you like to come with me to this?”

Jyn stares at the card for a long time.  Her face has gone strangely, studiedly blank.  He can only think she’s looking for a way to refuse politely.  But when eventually she looks up again it’s to say shyly “I’d love to.  If – if you’re sure.”

“Of course I’m sure,” Cassian says, beaming.  “I thought you were going to say no!  It’ll be mostly Imperial bigwigs, I know they aren’t really your kind of people.”

“I know.  But it’s a chance to – to dress up, to dance all night with you.  To pretend it is my world, with all the glitter and lights and gold.  I know I’d hate it if it _was_ my world.  But it’s just for one evening.  It’s something to remember.  And I’ll be with you.”

“Do you have an evening dress?”  It feels a cheek to ask, but the invitation is very clear about formal wear, and he has no idea where he’s going to get his own yet. 

“I can get something.  Papa mainly does men’s clothes but I’m sure he can come up with something for me.”

_Aha_...  “Do you think he could help me?  Sorry to fish like this, but I need a dress suit and I’ve nothing like that.”

The creases at the corners of her mouth are back and she says “I expect so,” deadpan, and then “And thank you – I’m sure this will be fun…”

He refills their glasses and toasts her with a chink.  “Yes, it will.  And you’ll be the most beautiful woman in the place.”


	14. Chapter 14

It’s well after 10th hour when Jyn gets home with her news.  Saw’s expression when she tells him she needs an evening frock is incredulous.

“A _what_?”

“You know, an evening dress.  Something really pretty, long skirt – I don’t know, floaty, sparkly, that sort of thing.  I need to look elegant.”

He stares at her, looks her up and down pointedly; reaches for the oxygen.

“Saw, please.  It’s only for one night.  I need to blend in.  This is my best chance to get into the Archives and if I don’t look the part I won’t even be allowed past the door.  I can’t believe you’d throw away an opportunity like this out of disapproval!”

Saw sighs.  “I’ll get you your frills, child.  Just don’t let me down.”

“I won’t.”

“Slip away as soon as you’re inside; lose the painter, track down what we need and get out.”

“Yes.  As soon as I’m able to.”  The thought of deliberately leaving Cassian on arrival irritates her.  Is a single dance so much to ask?Surely he’s less likely to suspect anything if she dances with him first.

_I am an adult, I made a choice, now I have to work with what I’ve done.  One day with a man who really loves me, one night at this ball.  But I do have to leave him; if he stays with me he’ll find out what I’m doing and then he’ll be in the way.  And if he’s in the way, then…_

She doesn’t want to think about what she would have to do then.  Focus on the clothes, the disguise, blending in...

“I’ll need shoes,” she adds, and Saw’s heavy sigh prompts her to go on mischievously. “And a clutch bag, and earrings or something, some kind of jewellery or something in my hair.  I need to be pretty.”

“I will get you what I can,” Saw says wearily.  “Don’t expect too much.  You’ll need to be able to wear a concealed weapon, and the bag will have to be big enough for your lock-picks and something to wrap round a data disc.  When do you need all this by again?”

“The end of the week.”

“Six days from now?”

“Yes.  And, Saw? – do you know where Ca- where Andor could get an evening suit?  He doesn’t have one and he has to look the part too.  I won’t get inside without him.”

“A suit.  Very well.  I trust he doesn’t need earrings and a purse, too?”

He sounds so disappointed in her that she regrets her teasing.  “No, of course not.  Or, well - I’m afraid he may need shoes.  Smart shoes, that is.  I’ve only ever seen him barefoot or in sandals.  I’m sorry, Saw, I know it’s a lot of trouble to go to.  Trouble and expense.”

“I’ll find you something, don’t make a fuss about it.  As for Andor, I’ll help; but you’ll need to bring him here to be measured.”

She hadn’t planned for that.  “Ah – can’t I just measure him and tell you?  He’s a couple of hands taller than me and pretty lean.”

“Pah!  A proper tailor sees to it that such things are done correctly, you know that.  And a proper papa would prefer his daughter not to be exploring the inside leg measurements of strange men.  You’ll bring him here tomorrow afternoon, it’s settled.  Now, go and get something to eat.”

 She’s still full of Cassian’s spiced eggs and vegetables.  “I’m not hungry, I ate at the studio.”

“Then go to bed.  Catch up on the sleep you missed last night when you were out cavorting.”

Was that only last night?  Jyn wants to bridle; but she can’t tell him she slept part of the afternoon, any more than she can tell him why.  She limits herself to a curt nod and turns to go.

The rebel captain is standing in the doorway.  She glares at him.

“Eavesdropping, Captain Rook?”

“Of course not.”

“I suppose if you really wanted to eavesdrop you’d do it so well that no-one had a clue?”

He smiles, rather sweetly.  “Precisely.  Are you heading for the dining room?  I only just got in; I believe some food was kept back for late comers like us.”

“I already ate.”

“Then you won’t mind if I have your share?”

“Help yourself.”

He turns into the passage with a gesture towards her.  “Walk with me, Miss Erso.”

“I’m sure you can find the way without a guide.”

“Walk with me just the same.”

She’d rather not, but her glance back at Saw reveals he’s oblivious, or pretending to be; either way absorbed in writing something on a data-pad.  It seems there’s no getting out of accompanying their visitor.  She walks with Bodhi Rook.

The dining room is at the far end of a long passage that winds back through the building and its series of ramshackle extensions.  Doors lead off to left and right, into training rooms and stores, outhouses, dormitories; one is open, the cutting-out room, and glancing in she sees some of the cadre working there, the ones who genuinely can sew and pass themselves off as tailors and cutters-out in front of clients.  Some of them are even capable; Edrio, the embittered Tognath everyone calls Two-tubes, is as accomplished a needleman as he is a fighter.  It will probably be him that ends up making her this party dress.  She wonders what it’s going to look like, and whether she’ll even be able to tell if it suits her.  She’s never dressed to be pretty; it still feels strange even to be wearing a skirt, and she’s been putting one on daily for a week now.

The last door on the left leads into a high-roofed lean-to structure where two long tables stand flanked by durasteel benches.  At a servery hatch some covered plates have been left; Rook takes two of them and sits down, indicating with a nod that she should join him.

“Oh look, is that the time?  I’d rather get off to bed if it’s all the same to you.”

He grins.  “Sit.  Please.”

Without waiting to see her reaction he uncovers the first plate of food.  It’s the usual; bread, salad stuff, a beige piece of cooked meat.  Rook slaps the meat and the leaves between the two pieces of bread and takes a large bite.  It looks a dismal meal compared with Cassian’s home cooking, but the Captain seems enthusiastic as he chews. 

She still has no idea why he’s asked her to join him; no, insisted upon it.  Slowly, Jyn sits down.

He finishes another large mouthful.  “So, tell me, Miss Erso—“ 

“Call me Jyn, for goodness’ sakes, you make me feel like a school-teacher.”

“Jyn –“ chew, chew, swallow - “Tell me, Jyn, why are you fighting?”

“I’m not fighting you.”

A nearly-humourless laugh.  “I didn’t say you were fighting _me_.  Although – admit it – you know you are.  I don’t blame you, either.  I show up and Saw trusts my word over yours, you’re being pushed into something you really don’t want to do; you feel resentment, frustration.  It’s natural.  Nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“I’m not embarrassed.”

“Of course not.  As I say, there’s nothing to be embarrassed about.  But what I mean is, why do you fight the Empire?”  Another bite, which he chews and swallows alarmingly quickly.  “Why are you a partisan?”

It’s highly unlikely Saw hasn’t told him her background; so this is some kind of test.  The acuteness of his assessment so far is irritating.  Why should she open up to this stranger?  “The Empire is evil.  They oppress people.  We don’t have freedom.”

“A textbook answer.  I’m sorry! – I know that sounds really rude.  But surely there’s more to it than that for you?  Something personal, I mean?”

It’s been her life.  What’s more personal than that?  The fight for freedom, for a justice that is for all and not merely for the powerful, for a peace that isn’t built on fear.  How can something she has lived for fifteen years be merely textbook?  Jyn frowns, biting back her anger.  He’s clearly trying to sound her out, and she has a better chance of handling it well if she can keep her cool.

“Look at all the injustice around us,” she offers.  “The poverty, the inequity.  For every single being under the Empire, that _is_ personal.”

He raises an eyebrow.  “Believe me, I know that argument well.  I’m from Jedha, I’ve lived all my life in the very bottom layer of their social order.  But there’s usually something more.”  He finishes his sandwich and uncovers the second plateful; grins at the repeated meal.  “Are you sure you don’t want this?  It’s good.”

“Really?”

Rook’s expression goes rueful.  “The food on the base is nutritious, but almost all of it’s vat-grown.  Algae and fungi.  And as for Imperial rations; tube gels and protein bars.  Real bread with actual grain in it is a huge treat.”  He smiles at her, piling the meat and greens into another doorstep of a sandwich.

“It gets pretty monotonous after more than ten years,” Jyn says.  “Cassian cooked me eggs and vegetables.  It was delicious.”

“Ah, I can’t remember when I last tasted an egg,” he says wistfully.  “But that’s good, it sounds as though you’re getting on better with Andor?”

Hells.  Hells and blazing blasts. He’s good; he caught her out perfectly with that little side track.  “Yes – yes, I think so.  The work seemed to go better today, maybe that cheered him up.  It’s getting easier to chat to him.”  She hesitates, to make it seem more confiding.  “I don’t know if you heard what I was telling Saw?  There’s a grand ball at the end of the week, he’s invited me to go with him.  It’s at the Archives.  It’s the perfect chance for us.”

“Almost a week away…  I hope that isn’t too long.”

“Let’s hope your contact was wrong about the urgency.  If he knew he’d just been found out he was probably panicking, after all.”

Rook’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly; there’s a beat before he says “He – wasn’t given to panic, as a rule.”

“But still – in the circumstances…”

He shakes his head decisively.  “No, I promise you.  He was completely calm; he always was.  He was probably the bravest man I’ve ever met.”

Well, he may be picking up on her tells but she’s pretty sure she’s wised up to one of his; he must have been very close indeed to this informant, to feel such guilt over him.

She pushes the tiny advantage.  “You feel you befriended him and betrayed him, don’t you?”

He disarms it with ease; a tiny pause, a calm look and a calm acknowledgment.  “There’s no _feel_ about it; that’s what I did.”

“That’s what you want me to do to Cassian Andor,” she tells him bluntly.

“I realise that.”  He goes on looking at her.  His wide eyes are measuring and hopeful.  “We have to do appalling things sometimes, in the name of this cause.  Things we will hate ourselves for.  Which is why I pray you really do know just how important this struggle is.  Why it needs to be more than just a theoretical war of values to you, Jyn; why it needs to be personal.  I ask you again, why do you fight?”

“I have to.  It’s my life.”

He sighs and says nothing; just looks.

She knows the technique, has seen Saw use it on nervous sources, has used it herself on occasion.  The communicating mind abhors a silence.

And, damn it, maybe she should be trusting him.  Saw does, after all.  She’s always prickling up at slights and irritations and it’s not unheard of for her temper to cause problems.  She might be doubting the very man who could help her, right now.  And besides, her reasons for fighting don’t even touch on Cassian. 

The Captain seems to want a sympathetic relationship with her.  She can give him this at least.

“They killed my parents in front of me when I was eight.”

Rook blinks once.  He says “Both your parents, in front of you?”

“On Lah’mu…”  And she’s there again; the humid cold, the drizzling rain slowly plastering her bangs onto her forehead as she stares through the winter wheat at the ‘troopers and the man in the white cape.  Jyn shivers and shuts her eyes, makes herself remember she is at home, in the dining hall where she’s eaten countless dull meals with her comrades; she’s sitting here alone with Bodhi Rook and his two empty plates.  “My mother – they shot her down, my papa fell on her body and they dragged him off her, he was fighting and screaming when I ran.  I heard more shooting but I wasn’t brave enough to go back again to help him.  Saw found both their bodies when he came for me.”

“On Lah’mu?”

“We were moisture farmers.  I was happy, _we_ were happy;  I liked the mud and walking in the hills, and the big beaches with the black sand and white breakers.  We had a nice droid, friendly, quick, he made jokes about math.  We ate cookies and blue cheese.  And the Empire killed all that, because my father wouldn’t go and work in their science programme.”  She opens her eyes and stares him down.  “So yes, it’s personal for me, too.  And I’m just one person out of the millions they’ve harmed like that.  You don’t need to worry that I’ll forget what this is all about.  It’s my life.”


	15. Chapter 15

_Tailors and Gentlemen’s Outfitters_ , the sign reads. _Saw Gerrera, Prop. Your style is our speciality._

So this is where she lives.

The business of visiting Jyn’s home in Belén Street is not an entirely comfortable experience for Cassian.  Her adoptive father the tailor turns out to be a huge elderly black man with a wild bush of hair.  Both his lower limbs are cybernetic and his breathing is a nightmarish wheeze from some unspecified lung problem; between that and the metallic clank of his leg joints he seems an oddly alarming figure, though he has to use oxygen so frequently there’s even a mask attached to his clothing.  Yet he’s visibly protective of Jyn, and she pads around him with a happy smile on her face, helping the two assistants bring out bolts of cloth and spread them across the counter for Cassian to choose from. 

One of the staff is human, a slim dark man with long hair bound back in a neat ponytail, who kneels down to take his leg measurements and calls the figures out.  The other assistant is a Tognath in a remarkably ugly breathing apparatus decorated to look like a skull, and it’s they who write the numbers down while Saw Gerrera, prop., watches and frowns and wheezes.

It feels embarrassing to Cassian, knowing that he spent the morning making passionate love to this man’s daughter.  His hips are sore and bruised, his back scratched from her grip, yet he feels like a thief in the orchard, devouring the fruit Saw wished to protect from being stolen. 

He chooses a plain black fabric, lightweight, smooth as spider-silk and with a faint sheen to the surface.  Saw smiles briefly.  “A sober choice for a man who lives by colour.  Do you expect me to dress my child like a bouquet of flowers to go by your side?” 

“It’s not up to me what Jyn wears, sir.”

“Good answer, young man.”

Jyn laughs.  “Papa, you make it sound as though I’m the one who gets to choose!”  She grins at Cassian, her eyes sparkling.  “He’s keeping it a mystery to me, too.”

“Let it be a surprise,” the old man says affectionately.  “I so seldom see you looking smart.  Indulge your papa for wanting to splash out a bit on you.”

“You know I do indulge you, all the time.”  She picks up some of the fabric rolls and carries them away into the store again; her look back at Saw is loving, but strangely sad as well.

“Do you have any decent shoes to wear?” Saw asks, looking pointedly at Cassian’s leather thong sandals.

“Ah – I have boots, I don’t know how decent you’d call them…”

“Better check his shoe size as well, Bodhi.”

“Would you sit down for a moment, please, sir?” the young man says.  “Thank you.  Now if you could just slip off your sandals?”  He produces a wooden gauge with binding tapes at intervals, slides Cassian’s bare right foot into it and calls out more figures to the muttering Tognath; takes his left foot and repeats the procedure.

“I hope my feet aren’t too dirty,” Cassian tells him.  “I took a shower before we came out but the streets are dusty.”

The assistant glances up at him with a faint smile.  “Believe me, sir, I’ve dealt with far worse things.  Tell me if that’s too tight?” 

“No, perfect.”

“Bodhi is new to the trade,” Saw remarks “But he’s the best apprentice I’ve had in years.”

The young man grins sidelong at Cassian’s feet.  “Thank you, Mr Gerrera.”

“Now, I think we have everything we need in the way of measurements and information.  I assume with a figure like yours, you will be opting for a slim-line leg?  And do you prefer the long-waisted Imperial or the Corellian traditional cut to the jacket?”

Cassian doesn’t know a thing about the cut of jackets and suit pants, but he does know that Imperial clothing in general looks as though it’s modelled on military uniform.  He says “Corellian, please” without hesitation, and both men smile in agreement.  The Tognath taps on their data-pad.

“Shirt?  I would suggest plain white for an event of this formality.” Cassian nods; he has a good shirt already, plain white linen, the one he wore for the interview when he got the commission.  He’s only worn it that one time.  “And I assume you will be wearing a dark necktie?”

“I don’t have a necktie,” he admits.  “I hate wearing those things.”

“It’s just for one evening, sir, and it will set off the suit,” says the assistant Bodhi courteously.  “Shall I bring out a selection, Mr Gerrera?”

“Yes, do that…”

He slips out, and for a moment it’s only Saw and the Tognath; and Saw says calmly “I’ve noticed that you watch my daughter a lot.”

 ** _Krif_**.  “I – ah – Jyn is an amazing woman, a wonderful model, she’s - working with her is simply the best, I hope you don’t think I’m – that is to say – I have the utmost respect for her – I promise you, nothing inappropriate has happened, I wouldn’t do anything she didn’t – I mean, anything she wasn’t –“ Oh krif, krif, krif, he’s blown it now; the old man’s face is impassive but for a moment his wheezing breath sounds dangerous. 

“I’m glad to see you understand me,” Saw Gerrera says when he’s drawn in several long gasps from his breathing mask.  His tone is surprisingly mild.  “Jyn is a remarkable young woman.  She will achieve great things.  I should not like to think of her being - disrespected.”

“Of course, sir, I understand.”

“It might not be safe for you.  You may need to stand back from her.”

Jyn and the assistant reappear just as he’s struggling to think what reply he can give to that.  Not safe?  Stand back?  He wants to protect her and her adoptive father wants her to – what?  What in the heavens was that all about?

“Look at all the neckties we found!” Jyn says cheerfully.  “Bodhi thinks you should go for black or grey but I said we should bring all of them so you have the full choice.”  She holds her arms outstretched, several dozen narrow lengths of silk and velvet spread across them like celebratory ribbons.  Cassian sees ruby red and violet, jungle green, azure; vibrant patterns and brocades, even metallised fabrics.  Feeling awkward he picks one out; it’s a plain silk, deep steely grey-blue, and Saw Gerrera nods as if approving it, and takes it from him to lay on the counter beside the bolt of black cloth and the data-pad with his measurements listed in neat script.

He catches Jyn’s eye and slips her the ghost of a smile.  She beams back unabashedly.  He wonders if she’s as conscious of her papa’s observing eye as he is.  Probably.  She’s not above teasing them both.

He makes his excuses and leaves as soon as the cost has been agreed.  Jyn calls “See you tomorrow!” and when he looks back from the door her clear eyes are fixed on him.  Her smile is smaller this time, and suddenly uncertain.  And although he’s no longer worried that her home might be abusive, the sight of that anxious sweetness still has him wishing he could take her away from here.  Wishing he could welcome her home.

**

She’s back at the studio next day in her freshly-washed clothes, and in between long kisses they finish the first painting.  Despite its interrupted progress it remains one of the best things he’s done.  Jyn’s utter stillness has been transmuted in his mind and his hand as he paints, and the image is full of her serenity.  The mild light on her face and in her hair is soft as a hand touching in love.

They plan and set up the second piece, joking with one another about how tough it’s going to be; her, naked, reclining in white sheets, him staying three metres away and looking at her nakedness all day. 

Cassian laughs about it.  But this is a new experience.  He’s never slept with a model before, much less fallen in love with one.  Now he’ll be turning her form, all the tender lines of the body he knows intimately by touch, into something for anyone to know.   The whole world will see Jyn’s nudity and he imagines every eye must detect the love of his touch, the grace given him in being able to lay down brushstrokes like caresses, in painting her with light and colour as he has painted her with kisses.

He’s already prepared a canvas.  She lies watching him as he begins work.  The air between them is full of sunlight, glowing and alive with unspoken things.   Jyn doesn’t move or utter a word once he’s started, and he lets himself focus more and more deeply on the patterns of light and shade, the exquisitely fine gradations of colour.  He paints nonstop, every muscle poised at the verge of frenzy, until at last they break for a meal.  It’s well after midday when he sets down his brush and palette and says “Oof,”, and looks back at her again; he sees her face open into a broad smile as she realises he’s stopped painting, and then in an instant she’s on her feet and in his arms.  All the tension of the morning vanishes in a long, close embrace.

He works shirtless, after that, partly for the spring heat and partly to have skin against skin as fast as possible, each time they break and she leaps up and runs to him.

In the evening, when the daylight has changed and faded so much that he has to stop, they make love in the dusk and then light the lamp, and rest in one another’s arms, talking idly, of things that are nothing, things that mean everything.  Later he cooks for her again, and they eat.  He makes corn flatbreads and a stew of meat, peppers, beans.  It’s the kind of food you eat with your hands, and he revels in the sight of Jyn licking hers; offers her his own hand, and has to whimper with pleasure as she licks and sucks drips of spicy sauce from each of his fingers in turn.  He lets her throw him down on the bed, after, and ride him slow and steady in the lamplight till they are both crying out, breathless and boneless and coming apart together, in bliss.

She curls against him with an inarticulate sigh in the back of her throat, and sleeps; and springs to alertness again just before 10th hour.  It’s like nothing he’s ever known, that strange shocked jump of hers, straight out of sleep like a soldier going on duty.  He wonders where it comes from.

By the end of the next day it’s clear the second painting is going even better than the first.  He’s almost afraid to touch it, has to work in a fever of unthinking flow, letting it happen, never allowing a single conscious thought as he paints and gazes at her.

When it’s finished, if the commission isn’t extended to a third piece, he wonders what will happen to them.  The thought of these days ending hangs like a storm in the distant sky.

“I have to go on seeing you when this is finished, Jyn…”

“These are our days,” she says.  “This whole week is ours, our time apart.  Don’t let’s think about the future.  I want to go on seeing you, too, but can we just be happy today and not worry about things?”

“I can’t bear to lose you.”

“Everything is so uncertain.  Please, Cassian, let’s just enjoy the moments we have.  I don’t want to think about the future, about things I can’t control.”

He knows she’s right, but still it feels oddly final; the last days before the world changes.  Her reaction has to mean that she knows Saw will not approve; and she doesn’t know how, or even if, she can oppose him.  The old man had seemed kindly enough but his message regarding Jyn had been unequivocal.  Cassian tries to tell himself there is nothing disrespectful about dating, but he’s pretty sure that ‘dating’ is not what Saw would call this relationship.

He teaches her the egg recipe, and others, dishes he remembers eating as a child, dishes she says she loves.  He shows her how to prepare flatbreads, teaches her the names of all the Festi spices.  “Now you have some old family recipes too…”

She smiles through an undertone of sadness; her memories, he thinks, the mama she lost, who didn’t cook.

One whole afternoon is spent practising their dancing carefully; the three-step, the _circulo_ , the waltz…  It feels almost like another form of lovemaking, their two bodies are so attuned now.

That evening, he walks her home, and collects a long bag with a hook at the top, and a large black shoe box, from the polite young man Bodhi.  He pays his bill and bids Jyn goodnight on the steps of the shop.

“I’ll pick you up tomorrow afternoon at fifth hour, if that’s okay?”

She nods, smiling at him, but her eyes are suddenly sad.  Saw has just come into the shop and is watching, he sees.

He’d like to kiss the tension from her face but when he steps nearer she blinks and lowers her eyes, and says “Until tomorrow” quietly.

And it’s the end of the week.


	16. Chapter 16

Cassian stands in the morning light, looking at the painting in the middle of the studio.  It’s never struck him before how unnatural it is, to be able to gaze at someone who’s not there.  Jyn should be here in this room with him, lying back watchfully, or standing at his side, slipping her hand into his as she waits and he thinks…

The piece is going so well it’s unnerving.  It’s full of pearly light, and Jyn’s face has come together perfectly.  He shivers at the stare of her painted eyes.  Lying there naked, laid open for the world to see, her expression both innocent and guarded.  A frank gaze, unabashed, rebuffing any other gaze that would claim her.  Even, he thinks, his.  No matter how much they love one another, she is no-one’s but her own.

He ought to work on the background for a while, to calm his jitters as the hour of the ball approaches.  But it’s good to stand here with a mug of kaf and think over the strangeness that is a portrait; and look at Jyn.  Just look at her.  When they are both long dead and gone to stardust, his paintings will show her in all her beauty and youth, will show her lips and her frank eyes full of life.  It’s a kind of immortality, for that which is most dear because most mortal, for young life in springtime, for love and loveliness.

The ring of the doorbell jars him out of his absorption and he puts the mug on the floor and hurries downstairs to answer.  To find himself looking into the sea-green eyes he was gazing at just moments earlier in the painting.

“Jyn!  I didn’t expect-”

She’s holding out a small package.  “You forgot your new tie yesterday.”

“Oh, I’m such an idiot!  How did I manage to do that?”

“Well, ah,“ Jyn bites her lip. “I may have hidden it.”

She starts to smile and he gathers her in, parcel, sneakiness and all, for a long hug.  They stand holding one another in the morning sunshine on the corner of the street.  Behind Jyn the white birds fly up and circle the square.

She lifts her head from his breast after a long moment and with her eyes closed she presses her lips over his heart.  He tips her head up and returns the kiss, on her lips.  She’s trembling minutely, and it feels almost like a sacrament, so that they both stop, and stay, unmoving, with mouths touching and eyes shut, breathing and silent.

At last she draws back; and in a small voice she says “I had to find an excuse to come.  There’s something I need to ask you to do for me.  Two things.”

“Why not three?  You can ask me to do anything, you know that.”  He kisses her again quickly.

Jyn’s laugh is almost hesitant as she says “Well, the second thing was ‘kiss me’, and if I asked for a third thing it would be ‘kiss me again’, and so would the fourth, and the hundredth I expect.  But—“ She breaks off and he realises that despite the jokes and kissing her expression is gravely serious.

“Tell me,” he says.  “You can trust me.”

“May I come upstairs, to tell you?”

He draws her inside, his arm round her waist.  In the studio, she stands looking around her in silence, the way she did the very first time.  He remembers watching her then, the night they met; Jyn slowly turning to stare at all the flowers, all the beauty, gazing out of her world, lost for words.  Back when she was just a pretty girl who might agree to sit for him.

“I was just looking at your picture when you arrived.  I’m so excited about this painting, it’s going so well I’m almost scared by it.”

Her lips part as she looks at the nude portrait, but for a long time she doesn’t speak.  Finally, “It’s beautiful.”  Nothing more.

“Would you like some kaf?”

Silence.  Jyn is blinking rapidly and he sees her swallow.  She’s as moved by the painting as he is, he thinks.

“What was it you wanted to ask me to do?”

She turns and comes to him, as if called by that question.  Her face is subdued, her expression doubting and sad as she looks up into his eyes.  “Cassian, I – I don’t know how to tell you this, it’s going to sound very strange.  Tonight – at the ball – if you need to introduce me to anyone, please don’t call me by my full name.  _Jyn_ is common enough but my family name isn’t and – someone might recognise it, and that might be bad.”

Well, she’s right insofar as that it does indeed sound strange.  But he told her she could trust him; now to live up to that. 

“What should I call you instead, if anyone asks outright?  Jyn Gerrera?”

“Force, no!  No, that wouldn’t be any better.  Jyn Hallik, call me that.”

“Okay.  Jyn Hallik.”

She’s looking round the room again, but somehow it’s not the same as her rapt absorption of that first evening.  Her eyes seem to slide over the paintings as if she can’t bear to look at them anymore.  He puts his hands to her waist and moves a little closer, so that she is almost within the circle of his arms; says “I’ll make sure not to forget.”

“Thank you.”  Jyn’s voice is low and husky.

“May I – is it okay with you – if I ask why?”

“It’s so complicated.”  She sighs.  “But I know I owe you an explanation for such a bizarre request.”

“It is - a little strange, yes.”

“My father,” says Jyn, and takes a deep breath.  “My real father, that is – he – he worked for the Empire.  He was a scientist, he worked in weapons development.  His name was Galen Erso.”  Her voice has become thinner and more strained as she goes on speaking, and she pauses now and swallows hard before finally looking up at him once more.  “He tried to leave.  But they followed us and they killed him and my mother.  They would have killed me too if Saw hadn’t saved me.”

Her face is expressionless but he can see how her eyes gleam.  Unshed tears and unspoken agonies all held down with an iron control he’s barely glimpsed till now.  When he draws her to him she resists for a second and then lets herself sink onto his breast.  Her lower lip sticks out and she puts her arms round him, and closes her eyes.

“I can’t risk anyone recognising my name!  I just can’t.  I should never have said ‘yes’ when you asked me to come to this ball but I wanted to…  And now I’m so scared someone will say ‘I’ve heard that name before’ and I’ll be – I don’t know – I don’t know what they would do to me!”

He thinks now the tears are coming at last; but it’s just a single teardrop that escapes under her lashes.  It trickles down one cheek while she holds onto him, rigid, fists clenched tight in his shirt.

“Jyn…  Jyn, I promise you I won’t tell anyone.  I promise.  I’ll spend the rest of the day just saying it over and over, Jyn Hallik, Jyn Hallik; I’ll say it until I can’t imagine ever hearing anything else with the name Jyn.  Or – if you like – you don’t have to come?  We could say you’re unwell?”

“No.”  She inhales, a tiny sobbing breath.  “No, I have to come.   Papa’s made my dress, he’d be so upset if I never wore it.”

She sounds so unhappy he can’t bring himself to say _You don’t have to please him if it upsets you this much…_

She pulls away and dashes the sparkle of moisture from her cheek.  “I have to go, I’m expected back directly.  He’s probably guessed I was making excuses to see you.  I miss you when I’m not here.”

Cassian knows what he wants to reply: _Jyn, come and live with me, leave this possessive old man, come and be free with me._

Freedom, such as it is; freedom provided he keeps in good with the system that murdered her family. 

Not really freedom, then.  Not the freedom her parents tried to find; not the one his father believed in, and died for, on Carida.

He says instead only “I miss you, too.  I wish we could be together all the time.  But I’ll see you this evening.  It’s past noon already, it’ll be fifth hour so soon you won’t believe it!”

Jyn nods, and stands up on tiptoe to kiss him; a kiss that starts quick and then lingers.  But she breaks away just as he’s about to wrap himself around her.

“I’ll see you, then,” she says with a smile that’s fractionally less confident then he would wish.

She puts her hand on his chest, over his heart, for a second; and then turns and leaves.  Her sandaled feet patter down the stairs and she’s gone.  Cassian is alone in the studio, staring at her picture again in the silence after the slam of the door.

**

At fifth hour he’s on his way; and he’s breathing fast, fidgeting with his collar, his cuffs, the knot of his tie.  Each time the tuk-tuk turns a corner the dangling decorations of the sunshade swing and catch in his hair, and he has to pull himself loose, wincing at the tugs on his scalp, and smooth everything down again.  He almost wishes Jyn had not come to see him; her tension and her fear have crept into his thoughts and refused to leave since.  He’s showered and brushed his teeth, trimmed his beard and moustache, dabbed his skin with cedar oil, finally dressed nervously.  The suit and the shoes both fit and he’s pretty sure they look good, as far as can be told from the small mirror in the ‘fresher.  Once he was dressed he waltzed with the air cautiously, checking he could move freely enough to do so.  He knows Jyn wants to dance.  But her eyes in the painting watched him coolly as he passed and returned, up and down the studio, holding an imaginary partner to his breast; and he didn’t feel any more confident.

The tuk-tuk arrives at Belén Street and he asks the driver to wait.  Squares his shoulders, straightens his lapels; checks the glossy shoes have not got scuffed on the way here.  He’s acutely nervous now, and it’s not just because he knows how tense Jyn must be.  This is the most formal date he’s ever been on.  It feels like the beginning of a real courtship, the old-school kind his parents had.

And well, if that’s what he has to do, to win quiet, wise, damaged Jyn from her papa’s old-fashioned care, then he’ll do it.  _Mr Gerrera, I should like to ask your permission to seek your daughter’s hand in marriage_ …  Ridiculous, but yes, permissions, interviews and all, he’ll do it.  The idea is precious and yet still comical enough to make him smile as he pushes open the door of the tailors’ shop.

The string of bright bells suspended just inside rings cheerfully and the human assistant Bodhi looks up from the counter and a data-pad, and freezes, then slowly smiles.

“The new suit, sir,” he says. 

“Ah – yes.”

Bodhi scans him from head to foot and nods, satisfied.  “Looks good.”

“Oh.  Good.  Good work.”  Cassian has no idea if this is normal, or what the correct response might be.  “Thank you.”

There’s a pause before the younger man recollects himself and adds “Of course, you’ve come to meet Jyn, haven’t you?  I’ll see if she’s ready.”

He slips quietly through the doorway into the back of the shop; the curtain falls into place behind him.  Cassian had supposed it was just a storage area but there must be more; presumably stairs or a corridor to the living accommodation.  He suddenly wonders what Jyn’s room is like.

The Tognath assistant in the breathing mask appears in the door and looks him up and down appraisingly.  Gives a grunt he hopes is approval; at least it sounds less hostile than their usual mutterings.

They stand aside from the door as Bodhi reappears, followed by the lumbering figure of the master tailor on his cyborg legs.  He too casts a measuring eye over Cassian; purses his lips for a moment before nodding and giving an unpractised smile.  Then stands aside, holding the door-curtain open for Jyn.

She still looks tense, but now it’s mixed with a simmering excitement.  Cassian stares and cannot stop.

Her hair has been swept up high and fixed with pins, from which trail short cascades of tiny sparkling flowers.  Her eyes are carefully made-up, not just her usual smudge of kohl but a deep shadow of painted smoke, a subtle pale gleam on her lids when she blinks.  Her lips are tinted, silvery rose-pink, and her finger and toenails painted the same colour.  Her sandals match the hair decorations, narrow straps of diamond blossom crisscrossing from toe to arch and rising to clasp her slim ankles.  She looks a good hand-span taller than usual; he’s never seen her in high heels, but she walks with complete ease in them, and her skirts drift back in the breeze of her movement, all pale pink and ivory, layers of silk gauze light as a cloud.   A fitted bodice hugs her breasts and waist, and the skirt tumbles in soft pleats and tiers from there; nothing covers her shoulders but two bands of the same blossoms, and here and there about the dress similar flowers are embroidered, starred with crystal beads and scattered randomly, as if fallen from her hair. 

It takes a long, irritable-sounding comment from the Tognath to bring Cassian back to his senses.  He’s been standing staring at her with his mouth open for a good minute.  She looks like a princess.

When he manages to stop gaping he says “You look amazing” and knows it’s the most banal remark he could have made; yet it’s the perfect truth.  His face feels strange; almost splitting in a huge grin.  She’s breathtaking; she’s smiling at him; he’s a hero from a legend, a king of ancient days, a prince, a Jedi bearing a shining sword... 

He reaches out to her as she comes towards him, into the open space of the shop; takes her hand and lifts it.  Bending his head he kisses the back of her fingers.  When he looks up she’s blinking fast and for a second her smile is shaky; she looks as awed as he feels. 

“Jyn!”  Saw’s voice is urgent.  “Don’t forget your purse!”  He shuffles forward, holding out a clutch bag that gleams with silver thread and beading, and Jyn receives it from him with an embarrassed breath of laughter.

“Sorry…”

“Jyn, child.  I’m very proud of you.  I want you to know that.” 

Saw takes another awkward step and embraces her carefully; and again for a second she looks close to tears before briskly she tells him “Don’t smudge my make-up, papa!”

“Good luck!” says Bodhi, grinning at them both.

Cassian offers Jyn his arm.  “Shall we?”

She takes one last glance at her family and friends, then gives him a smile; it grows, like a flower opening, and her fingers press his sleeve.  “Let’s go!”

He sweeps her out to the waiting vehicle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they're off to the ball, where everything will change...  
> I've modelled the description of Jyn's dress on the colours and styles Felicity Jones tends to wear to smart events, since I figured what suits her would also suit Jyn. Couldn't resist letting them both have that fairy-tale "You look amazing" moment.


	17. Chapter 17

Jyn has seen the exterior of the Archives many times since childhood.  The main façade overlooks Semanya Square in the heart of the historic centre of the city, and lately when she’s had to pass by she’s paused outside, pretending to adjust a sandal or to swap her shopping bags from one shoulder to the other.  She’s squinted up at the grandiose building, at the fusion of architectural periods, the pillared classicism of the frontage and the modern slab-grey rear extension; has tried to spot the its weaknesses, any place where a team or a single operative could get in, or get out, quickly and unseen.  She must have examined every last window arch and doorframe, every carving on the metopes, every capital on the long colonnade.  There are possibilities; but this is the first time, perhaps the only time, she will get the chance to see if they check out from the inside.

It would have been so much easier if it were possible to get in normally, but since the annexation of Corellia the place has been closed to all save a handful of Imperial-approved staff.  It still houses a second-to-none collection of historical documents, in a famously-beautiful interior no-one ever sees now, and from time to time a few items are exhibited in the adjacent Imperial Fine Arts Museum, but it’s a mere sop to the Corellian people, who once could walk in, to research and study, or simply pass the time of day looking at the riches of their own histories and cultures.

Today, in the warm light of a late spring afternoon, the place has been transformed into a dream palace.  The huge bronze-covered doors under the colonnade stand wide open, and the staircase up to them is lined with flambeaux and tree ferns in gilded stands.  Smart private cars, little floaters and grotesque stretch hover-limos are drawing up outside and dropping off well-dressed people; almost all of them human, fair-skinned and tall.  Most of the gentlemen are wearing Imperial-cut suits; most of the women, showing far more skin than her.

She wishes there was more time.  Her scrutiny of the exterior seems painfully inadequate now as she prepares to enter.  She’s had no chance to do any real reconnaissance, no chance to plan beyond those hasty looks at the building; she’s had no chance to buy a little more time for Cassian.  Her brain scrambles as she thinks of all the ways this evening could go wrong. 

Saw, half an hour ago, watching as she finished doing her hair: _You do know I would give anything for things to be different, don’t you?_

_Yes, I know_ , she’d said, wanting him to leave her alone.  But he’d carried on speaking nonetheless.

_It would make me so happy, if I were really watching you get ready to go to a ball with your young man, and I could just be a father looking at his beautiful girl and being proud of her, hoping she’ll be happy.  You know I’d give anything for a world like that._

_I know._

_But it’s because we don’t have that world, that we have to fight for it. Tell me you understand._

_I understand, papa._

It was a good thing the captain had come in at that point, or she might have cried, hearing herself say those words again after so many years.  _I understand, papa; only I don’t, I **don’t** ; all I know is that both of you made me say that when you knew you were forcing me to do something I didn’t want to._

The tuk-tuk is almost at the front of the line to drop off passengers now.  She clutches her purse nervously, feeling the thin steel of the pick-lock set hidden in the lining.  Looks up at Cassian and smiles at him.  Sweet life, he looks so happy.

_I can’t do this.  I have to do this.  I can’t do this._

_I’ve trained all my life to be good enough to do this.  I can do it.  And I can do it without getting him killed.  I know I can._

_I have to._

He’s paying the driver, he’s climbing down, offering her his hand as she rises from the padded seat.

“I can’t get over how beautiful your dress is.  It’s like having a queen from a fairy tale beside me.”

“You look pretty smart yourself,” she says, taking his arm.  The new suit hugs his slim figure in all the right places; her lover, her dear, her sweet, kind, brilliant Cassian.  Who she must leave, tonight, and not look back on. 

Her heels make a faint, pointed sound with each step on the dark yellow marble.  She holds onto his arm as they ascend the steps to the entrance.

Inside, as her eyes adjust to the different light levels and the packed ballroom, it becomes marginally easier to cope.  This is work, and she is so much on her own in this crowd; and she’s used to that.  There are a host of factors she must notice and log, measure and plan around.  She allows Cassian to draw her through the packed space, letting herself be guided, playing the awed innocent with barely an effort.  The building is huge and so is the crowd, there are faces everywhere she looks, people moving, talking, drinking, bowing elaborately to one another.  They pass through a series of antechambers and on every side she sees doors and hallways leading to corridors lined with more doors; the ballroom is the centre of a labyrinth and every step she takes could be observed by a thousand pairs of eyes.  And there’s no sign of anything that looks remotely like an archive or any kind of data storage.  Find the fucking plans? – she’ll be lucky if she can even find a bathroom in this place.

Which is of course the classic excuse to go wandering off at some point.  But it’s too early to do that yet.

They descend a wide, curving staircase, all white and gold marble; stunningly elegant people pass them to either side, going up and down.  So many haughty expressions, so many powerful men and huge-busted women, so many impassively beautiful faces.  Cassian is the slimmest man she can see, and the only bearded one; and almost the only person whose skin is even the faintest shade darker than white.  She’s never thought of him as noticeably olive-skinned, not even particularly tanned, but he certainly looks it here.  Sweet life, she thinks, how the Empire is a lie; it’s fake life, fake on every level.  And after all the trouble and care Saw and Edrio went to, getting their clothes right.  Although her dress is one of the loveliest in the room, this is possibly the most inadequate disguise she’s ever had, because she herself will never look like an Imperial.  Such trivial differences; she too short, her face too un-aristocratic, he too thin, too much facial hair, too not-quite-white; and they are visible outsiders here.

All these pretty clothes, all these pure-white, pure-human faces, all these happy people living in their glittering lie, protected and wrapped up in a world where they can get away with thinking the surface they see is everything there is.  A world so artificial that the likes of her and Cassian, both of them human and perfectly average in every respect, stick out like beacons.

It’s fear, nothing but fear, making her think like this.  No-one is staring at them; they can’t be that obvious.  It’s she who feels it, because she knows what lies beneath her silks and beads; the pick-locks in her purse, the thigh holsters under her skirt…

She moves forward at Cassian’s side, looking about her at the enormous room they have entered.  The high ceiling is painted, hung with chandeliers carrying chains of diodes that swing amidst crystalline glass.  Between the myriad side doors, mirrors three metres high decorate every wall, framed by white marble columns.  The floor is tiled in white and gold, and full of sweeping dancing figures; their swirling skirts and Imperial capes make them look like flowers rushing headlong on the current of a river.   Rushing blindly to their destruction, in all this beautiful pretence.

They’ve reached the bottom of the monumental stairs.  Cassian asks “Would you like a drink, or shall we dance?”

Just as she’s weighing up what answer to give, the musicians finish their tune and segue instantly into another; it’s a waltz, one slow enough that she feels sure even unpractised dancers like them could manage it.  She switches a smile on and looks up at him.  “Dance?”

“Okay, let’s dance then!”  He wraps one arm round her waist and with a gentle pressure steers her onto the floor of the ballroom.  Jyn raises her left hand to his shoulder; manages to place it wrong, her fingertips brushing the side of his neck for a second before she adjusts them.  He’s already taken her right hand, is clasping her in the requisite close hold; when she raises her head he’s looking down at her with delight and affection and a tinge of concern. 

His hand exerts the tiniest push to steer her and they’re off, sweeping across the floor, in between the other dancers.  Now they’re moving he leans down to her and whispers under the music “We don’t really fit in here, do we?”

It’s hard not to laugh aloud, or cry with relief.  Force alive, she loves this man so much; could have loved him, and loved getting to know him, for the rest of her life, so gladly. 

She contains her voice to a murmur, though her smile feels too broad.  “Not really, no.”

Some of the dancers are executing fancy moves, the gentlemen twirling and reverse-spinning their partners, changing direction, bending them into dips and swooping back-bends.  Cassian’s hand in her back is unerring as he guides her, but they keep to the simple steps they’ve practised. 

“Don’t worry, I don’t think anybody else cares,” he says softly.  “I’m afraid I do have to network with some people.  And the food should be good, so there’s that to look forward to.  But if you really hate it, we don’t have to stay long.”

She lays her head on the breast of his perfectly-fitted jacket for a moment, so that he won’t see the tears she’s fighting.  How had he seen through her, when she thought she was keeping it so well hidden with that mask of humour?  Because she does hate this, Force knows she hates it.  

She gathers her voice together, enough to answer without giving herself away.  _Oh, Cassian, oh, my dear_ …  “But, Cassian, this is your big chance, your big occasion.  Please don’t feel you need to cut it short for me.”

“It _is_ big, isn’t it?” he says.  “Quite a lot bigger than I expected.” And then, his lips just above her ear “But you’re the most beautiful woman here.  And the only one I want to be with.”

She can’t answer.  She lets him lead her on round the dance floor, their movements slow and synchronised.  It feels unreal.

“All these people,” Cassian says “And not one of them knows what the real world is like.  Not one of them except you.”

_Oh, my dear, please don’t.  I have to leave you, if I’m to save you; please don’t be like this now when we’re in the very last moments of our time together_ …

“They don’t mean any harm,” she says mechanically.  “Like you say, they don’t know.”  It isn’t exactly the whole of her views on the subject, but she’d rather feel pity for all these glossy pawns than hate.   They aren’t the ones she has to rob.  They aren’t the ones who had her family killed. 

She has to keep her focus somehow.

The music is speeding up slightly.  Luckily he’s noticed too, and he quickens his footwork to keep pace.  If she can just go on matching her steps to his, she’ll be alright.  _Just relax, Jyn, enjoy the feeling of his arm around you, so warm, his hands guiding you, so strong; enjoy this for the one time it will ever happen, this feeling of being a woman in a ball dress, who is led by her man and has no goals of her own driving her._

_Just enjoy it._

They dance to the end of the melody, and step off the great white and gold floor again as another tune starts.  She’s slightly breathless and so is he; before she can say a word he reaches out to a passing waiter and asks “May I?” and takes two glasses from the man’s tray.  It’s sparkling wine, the colour so pale it’s almost clear.  A heady scent, dry and floral, rises from the surface where tiny bubbles burst.  Cassian takes a large swig and then stops himself and sips, grinning.  Abruptly he looks nervous.

“There’s the Director,” he says, nodding at someone over her shoulder.  “Do I look alright?”

“You look gorgeous.”  It comes out sounding frivolous, because this is the moment she’s avoided facing up to ( _Krennic, sweet life, it’s him; she really does have to smile and play charming in front of **Krennic**_ ); but Cassian smiles at her words, hearing only the love and the good-humour of them.

“I’m not sure I want Director Krennic to think that, you know?”  His grin flickers for a moment and then grows stronger, with a touch of mischief.  “He has a – a bit of a reputation…”

Jyn sips her own wine to mask the tightening of her jaw.  “I’ve heard,” she says when she feels able to lower the glass.

She turns, to look the way he’s nodding.

The Director is standing above them, on a kind of balcony, looking down superciliously at the swirling horde of dancers.  He’s all in white, still, though it’s civilian clothing now and he no longer wears the peaked hat and cape of an officer.  His face is fifteen years older than when he ordered the troopers on Lah’mu to shoot, but she’d know him no matter how many years had passed.  Orson Krennic, former director of science, bought off with a sinecure on Corellia when his star waned and his pet project was taken over by Grand Moff Tarkin.  It's him.  The man who murdered her parents.


	18. Chapter 18

_-Uncle Orson, Uncle Orson, give me a swingie! **Swingie!!**_

_-Jyn, hush, come away! - her mother’s voice, anxious-angry, out of breath._

_-No, no, it’s fine!  Hello, little peaches-and-butter-cream, you want a swingie, eh?  Take my hand, then.  Hold on-_

Impossible to breathe for a moment as the memory takes hold.  He really has hardly changed.  She reached out to those gloved hands once.  She ran about a roof garden on Coruscant and played with this man as though he were a loved friend.  Papa’s boss, the smiley man who told her she could call him Uncle Orson. 

He looks so urbane, the murderer, still smiling, still in white. 

If he should recognise her she’s dead already. 

Jyn inhales consciously, and tenses her mouth into a facsimile of gratification as he turns her way.

“Director.”  Cassian’s voice is warm, he sounds glad, pleased; but can she detect a tiny note of discomfort under the happy surface?  Or is she deceiving herself?  “I just wanted to thank you for the invitation to this magnificent occasion.  It’s amazing to be here.”

“Ah – Cassian, my dear chap!” That voice that once gave her pet-names, its ugly velvet now stroking her lover.  Her breathing quickens and grows lighter and she has to make it slow, has to still herself inside.  She is stone, ocean, silence, she is calm, facing her parents’ killer. 

He’s being charming.  “So glad you could make it tonight!  There are some people I want you to meet, we have some very notable guests, well-known collectors I can introduce you to…”

They’re shaking hands.  Krennic’s taken his gloves off, and he holds Cassian’s thin dark hand between his, proprietorial.  She wants to strike him away; wants to bend his thumbs back till they dislocate, to break each finger in turn. 

Cassian says gratefully “That would be wonderful, sir.  I really appreciate the offer.”

The cold eyes turn.  “And who is your delightful young companion?”  The hated affability of that voice, those eyes, that face; the pale hands stretch out to her now, as though to take possession.  Jyn makes herself inhale again.  Fixes her smile like a picture.

“Director, may I present Miss Jyn Hallik, my model?  Jyn, allow me to present Director Orson Krennic of the Imperial Fine Art Museum, my honourable patron.”

Krennic scoffs amiably.  “My dear boy, hardly that!  Talent like yours requires no patronage.  My dear Miss Hallik, charmed to meet you.”

He’s taken her hand in his; and although she’s been held by these hands before it costs a real effort not to flinch at his touch now.  How silky-smooth his skin is.  He bends over her knuckles in an effusive air-kiss; smiles at her, benevolent, utterly self-assured.

“Very pleased to meet you, Director.”  She smiles it out.  “It’s an honour to be here.”

“Do I detect the accents of Coruscant?  How delightful!  I hope you’re enjoying your visit to Coronet City, my dear young lady.”

“Oh, I am.  But it isn’t just a visit, I live here.”

“Really?  How charming.”  And with that he turns away, back to Cassian, switching her off as though she were a speck of talking dust.  Escape; except Cassian is determined to bring her forward again.  His hand is gentle on her arm but she would have to shrug him off visibly and she can’t do that…

“Jyn was just telling me that she’s never been inside the Archives before,” he says.  “Which makes two of us, so I must thank you for this as well.  What an amazing opportunity to see such an extraordinary building.”

He’s gushing nervously; but Krennic seems happy to receive it.  His smile almost reaches his eyes this time.  “It is magnificent, isn’t it?”

“Oh yes!  But what I don’t understand,” Cassian goes on “is why an Archive has a ballroom at all.  It’s unusual, surely?”  He beams eagerly at the Director.

“Ah, well, you see, there’s a story behind that.”  Krennic is turning his personality on full now, the man in charge asserting himself to a junior who seeks his wisdom.  “This was once the Reading Room.  Back in the days before data storage this entire building was full of paper documents.  Anyone working here had to sit in this very room to study the material they were researching.”

Cassian’s expression is a study, and she’s suddenly glad Krennic is looking at her and not him.  At least she’s used to hiding her thoughts.  She murmurs politely “How fascinating.”  And perhaps she can use this interaction, since he’s so paternalistic, so patronisingly unaware of how utterly he talks down to them.  “Was everything really all on paper?  Real flimsy-paper, like children’s drawings?”

“Yes indeed.”  It’s so easy to see Uncle Orson again in his smile; paternal, tolerant, slightly bored but prepared to play at being affectionate.  “The historical things still are, though I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know we’ve created a full back-up in recent years.  Wouldn’t do to have all these precious resources lost to a fire or something, eh?  Our own records are all in proper modern data files, of course.”

Jyn looks around, widening her eyes artlessly.  “But I don’t understand.  Where is it all kept, then?  I don’t see anything like file storage anywhere…”

“That’s because this is just one little part of a very big complex,” Krennic explains.  And oh, how satisfying it is to lull him into telling her all this.  “The historic Corellian records are all here in the south wing, in the rooms around us here; more up-to-date ones are in the remainder of the building.  For example if you needed to see records of civil marriages in Coronet City last year, those would be in the new part of the building, in – let me see – in the north wing, on the second floor.  Everything in its place, and a pace for everything, eh?”

He’s taken her hand again and he pats it now as though she were a sweet little animal.  There’s no way he could ever know her by her touch; she can’t have been more than five or six, that day in the roof garden.  Her urge to shudder is entirely repressed, though she knows the memory is running unattended in the cave of her nightmares.

“How exciting to know so much!” _Smile, Jyn, smile._

“There’s even a mezzanine in the new wing with Top Secret Records.”  His tone points up the implied capital letters, shows how special she’s meant to understand this as being.  “And do you know, just three people in this entire room are allowed access to that level.  Can you guess who one of them is?”

She drops her eyes for a moment, makes a little moue as she looks up again.  “Maybe – it’s you?”

A tolerant chuckle.  “Right first time, my dear, right first time.”  That pat on her hand again, that cold face smiling.  A fish would have more natural warmth in its blood.  But this is the information she needs.  A mezzanine.  All she needs now is a plan of the building, and to get out of this huge fuss that is the ball.  She smiles and smiles.  She’s still smiling fixedly as Cassian takes her elbow. 

“There’s another waltz starting, listen, Jyn.  Director, I hope you’ll forgive us if we leave you for another dance or two?”

“Of course, of course.  Enjoy yourselves.  It is a party, after all!”

Cassian leads her back down the little flight of steps from the balcony, and they are dancing again. 

The music is quicker than the last time, but she can breathe normally once more now.  Under cover of the music Cassian says “He liked you.”

“That was so embarrassing.  I couldn’t think of a thing to say.  I must have sounded such an idiot.”

“You did fine.  I’m sorry he was so patronising, but, honestly, I think he liked you.”

She manages a small laugh.  “I hope he didn’t like me too much.  You did say he has a reputation…”

“Well, you’re safe now, anyway.”  Cassian grins down at her.  “I don’t think Director Krennic’s tastes need to be a problem for us here…”

They smile at one another as the dance sways on, slowing gradually, and for a few moments more Jyn can pretend this is just a natural evening.  She can lay her head on his shoulder and rest there; she can relax. 

She cannot relax;  She needs to get into the north wing, the modern extension and the mezzanine level on the second floor.

The waltz is followed by another dance they both know, the _circulo_ ; it’s slower and more formal, danced in sets of eight.  They let themselves be marshalled quickly into a square with three other couples.  She can do this; she can circle round him, touching him at the wrist, the elbow, holding his brown eyes all the while.  After this dance she is going to let him go.  It’s time to make her excuse, to look for that bathroom.  When the music ends she twines her hand through his and lets him lead her to one of the buffet tables along the wall opposite the entrance; pops canapés into his mouth, teasing him playfully.  One last touch of his lips, then one last shared laugh as he reciprocates.  Pastry titbits, tiny rose-petal cups filled with clotted cream and honey, a single frosted berry.  Flavours intense as the taste of his body.  There will never be another day of this, never another minute.

A kiss on his fingertips, looking up at him under her lashes.  _The last time, the last time_ …

The Director is watching them.  His pale blue eyes flick up and down Cassian’s figure, as though seeing his protégé happy is unexpectedly interesting.  There are two richly-suited men with him, surveying the room with detached expressions.

“Sweetheart,” she murmurs.  _The last time, the very last time_ …  “Your patron is trying to get your attention.”

Cassian turns quickly, attentively, and looks back to her with a wry expression.  “I’d better go talk to him again, those two gentlemen look important, wouldn’t you say?  Time to find my Very Best Manners…”

“You can do it!”  She pretends to adjust his necktie, though it’s perfectly straight.  “Go get yourself a big commission!”

“Would you mind if I leave you here for a few minutes?”

 “What, here, with the food?  Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of it.”

His grin, his soft chuckle.  The last time.  She lets herself just look into his eyes as he says “See you in a little while” and moves away.  Watches him, all the way back across the ballroom.  She needs to know when his attention is absorbed, when she’s safe to move away unnoticed.  There’s a doorway to her right that seems to be attracting a steady traffic of guests.  She just needs to slip through and follow the other ladies heading for the bathroom. 

One last look across.  Cassian is being introduced to the two newcomers, shaking hands, making animated conversation while an attentive staffer brings more glasses of wine.  He’s making the most of a good opportunity.  He looks happy.

_I wish you well with all my heart_ , she tells him silently: _Do not regret me, do not follow me, do not mourn me if I fall.  Don’t try to understand me.  I am letting you go now.  I have wronged you and I will never forget you, but I am letting you go._

She turns away.


	19. Chapter 19

The big collector of the pair turns out to be an astoundingly dull man, pompous even by art world standards, and Cassian resigns himself to smiling mechanically and making _oh-I-am-impressed_ noises in the back of his throat as the man expatiates happily on his own importance.  Even the Director is beginning to look nonplussed at the monologue, and the minor collector can’t get a word in either.  Well, it’s a hazard of this career, and ironically one that marks having attained a degree of success, having to meet the boring rich people who can afford to commission original paintings. 

He grins and nods and makes himself listen, just in case at some point he’s expected to give more than a polite noncommittal grunt of agreement.

Behind the man’s rubicund, self-satisfied face he can see Jyn slowly moving down the length of the buffet table.  Now and then she darts out a hand; his smile deepens as he realises she’s grazing her way, picking choice mouthfuls from the mounds of fruit and candy, platters of olives and pastries, miniature cheeses, tiny savoury cookies.  Jyn enjoys good food; browsing through this spread is probably a lot more fun for her than making connections is turning out to be for him. 

At intervals she pauses and looks around her, still slightly wide-eyed at her surroundings. 

Once or twice she catches his eye.  He allows himself to send a tiny smile her way when this happens.  But as if by telepathy they both look away quickly, each time, and he’s grateful even as his heart illogically feels let down.  She’s helping him, not allowing him to get distracted; he really can’t afford to let his host see how much he’d rather look at her; and the Rich Idiot would be even more offended than Director Krennic.

The man _is_ an idiot, too; not only dull but entitled and arrogant.  Cassian’s more and more glad Jyn didn’t come over as the man drones on, hymning the Empire’s wise social policies and colonial virtues. 

Smile; smile and be courteous, until you can get away.  It was ever thus, and the next rich men he meets may be more interesting.

He glances Jyn’s way again and sees her hovering by one of the doorways.  People drift past her, in and out of the ballroom.  She looks strangely lost in thought for a moment, surveying the room, and he remembers her absolute self-containment, the night they met; sitting in the Momus, waiting for her worthless no-show of a date and hiding her every emotion.

She turns and slips out of the ballroom.  So very quick and silent, vanishing like smoke.

It dawns on him a moment later that the bathrooms are probably that way, given all the coming and going.

At last the Rich Idiot decides to make his departure and bring the wonder of his opinions to someone more useful to him.  The minor collector seizes the chance to talk, and he at least is genuinely interesting, with views and thoughts worth hearing, and ideas about portraiture he is willing to discuss.  He asks technical questions and listen to the answers.  Cassian can see Krennic relaxing as his protégé  begins to chat enthusiastically, and it’s hard not to grin at him in complicit thanks, because unlike the last, this conversation really could be an opportunity, and he is grateful for that.

At length a junior minister sweeps the Director away, and the collector makes his excuses soon after, though not before giving Cassian his contact information.  So that went as well as could be hoped; one total dud, one good lead.  He can let himself relax now, feel a glow of achievement.  Scruffy, shabby Cassian is no more, he’s smart, successful Cassian now and he may be on his way to a good portrait commission.  Yes, the evening is going well.

Time to look for Jyn again.  Maybe have another glass of that good wine, and another dance or two; maybe something more to eat. 

He remembers her pressing cream-stuffed rose petals between his lips, and shivers. 

He heads to the buffet and looks up and down the line of tables, expecting to see Jyn’s smile and her bright eyes at any moment.  He plucks little bites of food for himself and accepts a drink from one of the unobtrusive staff.  The bubbles in the wine are fine and cold as fresh air in his throat.  Everything he tastes is delicious, sweet and salty, cool and fine.  It’s all of a piece with the evening beginning to go well now.  

He wants to dance again, to celebrate how things are coming together and the world is somehow not a complete mess, even here at the heart of Empire.

There’s no sign of Jyn yet, and he downs the wine quickly and takes another glass; turns, scanning  the whole ballroom.  He searches for the glitter of her hair ornaments, for her bare shoulders, the pearl-pink silk of her dress.  Perhaps the problem is because she’s so short; could she be hidden by all these women tall as catwalk models?  He would have expected to spot her by now. 

He surveys the length of the buffet again, slowly and with exactitude.  Tells himself he isn’t worried.  She’s just been distracted, or stopped to talk to someone.

Who would she talk to?  She knows no-one here except him.

He heads into the neighbouring passage, going through the same door he saw her take.  If someone has buttonholed Jyn and trapped her in social chitchat for this length of time she will be dying to be rescued by now.  Especially as she was probably heading for the bathroom when she came out here. 

He’s no sooner in the corridor than he’s brought up short, staring in amazement at something he’d never anticipated. To either side of the bathroom doors hang enormous paintings, cityscapes taller than a man and proportionally wide, in fantastically-carved frames.  The views are familiar, and in the foreground of each he sees tiny figures in the clothing of two centuries past; the quality of light is unmistakable, a limpid glow, perpetual midsummer and mid-morning.  They’re original Cadalias; views of the harbour basin below Old Town and of the mouth of the Kavala Canal, with a state barge emerging flanked by escort ships and crowds in carnival dress.  Cadalias, and magnificent ones.  The entire corridor is lined with them. 

Force alive, this is what they hang outside the bathrooms?  He counts the paintings, standing awed and gaping in the passage.  There are sixteen of them.  Sixteen original canvases by Cadalia.  Casually popped out here to decorate a passageway.

Cassian walks slowly up the corridor, looking at each one.  Another reason why this evening was worth attending.  The brushwork, the luminosity; the famous eternal summer of Cadalia’s vision, of Coronet-as-paradise.  They’re ravishingly beautiful, images of perfect serenity; and in superb condition.  What a treat.

He pauses at the junction of corridors, meaning to come back and embarrassedly aware that no-one else is admiring the paintings but him, but aware now that round the corner there is more art, just sitting there tempting him.  Hesitates, knows he shouldn’t; then looks anyway, and walks a few paces onwards, because the first thing he sees is a huge mythological scene by Remmier, and beside it on a short marble pillar, a bronze bust that looks like an early piece by Poldo Rivan.  When will he see a Remmier up-close like this again, when will he get to touch a Rivan? – he wants to go and look closely,to treat this as if it were an extension of the Museum next door.  He knows he can’t; he mustn’t, oh how he mustn’t, there’s a very good chance that this is an area he isn’t meant to be in at al.  He’s supposed to be looking for Jyn.  She could be searching for him right now, and here he is wandering about the place, tipsily admiring Old Masters outside the _servicios_ and straying farther and farther away from the public areas…

He makes himself turn back, towards the ballroom and the public areas, and his shoe lands on something hard.  He stops automatically, looking down to see what it is he’s trodden on, hoping it wasn’t something that had been alive; and from the marble tiled floor of the passage a diamante flower gleams up at him like an unblinking eye.

He picks it up and turns it over in his hand.  On the back, the silver wires that once attached it to Jyn’s sandal have been flattened by the pressure of his foot.

She walked up the passage, he thinks; almost to the end, like him.  She was looking at the paintings too.  She went right round the corner, she was so absorbed, and then somehow she dropped a flower from her sandal strap.

Cassian stares up and down the passage, and his eyes return anxiously to the little rosette of gems in his hand.  It isn’t hard to see Jyn as seduced by the pictures as he was.  But how did her sandal get damaged? 

At the far end of the corridor, a simple rope barrier blocks off a huge door; but it has been moved to one side and the door stands ajar, light showing from beyond it.

It’s insane, it’s utterly illogical and probably the wine thinking for him, but Cassian’s blood turns a degree colder at the sight. Someone has gone further into the building than the guests are meant to.  Someone, somehow, has lured Jyn into the closed part of the Archives, far away from anyone who knows she’s here, anyone who could help her.  Someone with access to the inner rooms…

_I think he liked you…_

She’s smart, she’s a grown woman, and she must surely be streetwise; for the love of life, she lives in Old Town!  She has to know how to take care of herself. 

He’s at the door; he puts his face into the opening and hisses her name nervously.  No response.  Tries again, a fraction louder.  “Jyn!  Are you there?  _Jyn!”_

Nothing.

_Please, let her just appear at my side now, and laugh at me for worrying_ …

This is crazy.  Cassian looks again at the little flower; puts it into his jacket pocket, and turns purposefully to start back towards the ballroom. Because surely, _surely_ , that must be where she is.

Stops, and wavers, and turns back.  Surely she must be there; _but what if she isn’t_ …

He presses one cheek to the ornate carved surface, squinting through the crack of light.  There’s another corridor beyond, but one that is entirely grey, devoid of any marble and gilding, any great art; just floors and walls of concrete and plasteel, featureless and cold.  The new wing.  Cassian draws back, hands bunching into fists fretfully.  

On the open door there’s a scratch on the polished bronze lock plate, and above and below it, tiny discolorations in the gilding.  He’s seen marks like that before.

_Tiv, three years ago; Tiv grinning like a madman and saying “Don’t panic, mate, when I’ve got me pick-locks the world’s me kriffing oyster!”  The day he stole the flame lilies._

The door had been locked, with an old-style hand key and a pair of inbuilt circuit-locks; and it has been picked.  Those faint stains are where the circuitry was disabled by a gadget like Tivik’s, an EM heat-pulse; the scratch must have come from someone careless or in a hurry, working a curved slip of durasteel into the hand-lock in order to trip the wards and open it.

Cassian pushes on the door and it swings open.  _Oh Force, no_ … 

He steps back, instead of through, and stands in the passageway, staring, swallowing.  This can’t be happening.

He can’t be doing this; sneaking in where he isn’t meant to be.  That’s what criminals do, that’s what people do who are stealing, like Tiv, or fooling around to prove they can, like Tivik again.  Not him.  He’s never, ever done anything that would mark his loyalties as doubtful, has never so much as drawn attention to himself; has turned and walked away from every kind of trouble he ever saw, and steadfastly refused himself the luxury of getting angry or upset about controversies, differences of opinion, politics of any sort.  He’ll never get away with this, he’ll be caught, punished, ruined, he’ll lose everything.  He’s pledged his whole life to crawling away from Fest and the dead hopes buried there; dragging himself by his fingernails out of those cold fields and ruins.  He’s got here; _here_ , a prize-winner, a man with a patron, on the verge of a good career at last.  He can’t risk this. 

He freezes.  He turns.  He’s going to walk away.  Yes, yes, do it.  If there’s been a break-in then his responsibility is to report it.  He marches halfway to the corner and stops. 

He cannot risk his entire future on a stupid hunch that – that –

That Jyn is in trouble.   

But if she is…

Cassian walks back to the open door and straight through, into the high, grey chamber beyond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and the painful moment of truth is almost upon him. Sorry this is getting so drawn out. Poor Cassian, I know I'm torturing him (am currently writing the next chapter and yes, I'm afraid I really am...)


	20. Chapter 20

“Jyn?  Jyn!  Are you there?  Are you okay?”

Silence; not even a reverberation.  The walls are smooth and matt grey.  The floor feels faintly soft underfoot, springy, deadening all sounds.  The distant voices of ball guests were still audible in the corridor but here they vanish, and it’s like stepping into an echo-cancelling chamber.  All around him there’s nothing but blankness; colourless, almost featureless.  Hard flat light and no shadows, hard flat sound swallowed as soon as heard.

Cassian moves forward cautiously, unnerved by the soundlessness of his footsteps.  In front of him, across the room, is a row of plain black doors, with a small inset panel beside each one.  Push buttons, tiny indicator lights; they must be elevators.  At three of the doors the lights gleam steadily; the fourth is winking, and moving closer it sees it is showing a number two.  Someone is on the second floor, he thinks weakly.  If Jyn is anywhere, she is there, too.

The fear of being caught rears up inside him again.  All those canapés, all that superb wine, all the dancing, the excitement and tension, and now this; a surge like nausea hits like a blow between his heart and his gut.  He has to choke it down again.  It’s so unfair, he just fought through this question and won and now he’s being faced with the same nightmare again; what to do, where to go, should he advance or go back for help?  His feet carry him forward, up to the nearest of the lift doors and then away again, a hesitant to-and-fro like a dance step.  Needing to go to her, needing to run.  The second floor; and what if she’s trapped, frightened, praying for someone to notice her absence and come looking for her?   

He’s the only person who would notice, the only one who’d come.  He has no choice, really, but to repeat the decision he’s already taken.

He presses the call button.  The doors slide open instantly.  He steps into the carriage.

He can’t see any scanners or security cameras.  But this is an official installation, there are bound to be both, somewhere.  Surely anyone viewing this will be able to see his reluctance, his alarm and hesitation as he flexes his fingers and rubs them together nervously, and again reaches out to touch a single button, the tiny glowing 2 on the panel.  He feels the lift carriage shake minutely as it begins to ascend.  Maybe there’s already a detail of guards coming to investigate.  Maybe he’ll be caught long before he finds Jyn; maybe this is his career finished before it ever got going. 

No! - he’ll go somewhere else, start again; Naboo, Alderaan, Inniflect, there are other worlds where artists can make a living, surely.  He’ll take Jyn out of this mess and they’ll run together.

Surely, surely…

The doors open, their mechanism so smooth the movement startles him.  He steps out onto the second floor; and for the first time, now, this really looks like an archive.

The room is wide and silent and fifty feet high, and on every side stand banks of storage units like thick glittering pillars.  Identical shelves reach from floor to ceiling, filled with identical neat black discs each in its identical slot, awaiting the grip of the selector claws that hang stationary, powered down, at the top of each column.  Freestanding search screens stand between the banks of data, every one blank bar a few tiny indicator lights.  As far as he can see, there are more and more of them, endless stacked sets of files, case after case of them , pillar after pillar, jam-packed solid.  There’s so much data here it’s nightmarish; every scrap of it, important to someone, somewhere; even if it’s records no-one has ever looked at, someone thought all of this worth storing.

Ahead, up above, he can see the edge of a balcony, and he realises there’s a secondary level where instead of the pillars stacked with data-files there are shelves, like an old-fashioned library.  The mezzanine Krennic mentioned.  The silvery glow of a force field rises from the balcony rail to the roof. 

Cassian moves slowly forward, biting his lip, glancing from left to right.  He cannot hear his own footsteps, so no-one else will hear him; but he won’t hear anyone coming, either.  His breathing is fast and light, so that he’s starting to feel giddy and a little sick.

Then suddenly, ahead of him, between two of the pillars, there’s a flash of pale pink.  He freezes; there she is, a small figure crouched awkwardly at the foot of the far wall, getting down onto her knees.  Her sandals lie beside her on the spongey black floor, discarded, but she’s still clutching her purse.  She’s moving, breathing; silent, but still alive. 

He starts forward, almost running to her.  Has to stop himself, look around, make at least some attempt not to walk straight into gunfire or the swing of a fist or a knife.  But there’s no sign of anyone else there.

Jyn is kneeling at another door.  Her hands are shaking slightly as she takes something out of her bag.  Cassian hurries towards her.  “Jyn!”

She leaps to her feet in a single fluid movement and whirls, crouching.  Then slowly straightens, staring; and her face goes to a blank of shock.  Her hands unclasp and the purse, and a small curved piece of silvery metal, both fall soundlessly to the floor.

“Jyn, are you okay?” She’s scaring him, she looks as though her heart has been stopped. “Jyn!”

“You need to go.  **Now**.”  Her voice is small and harsh.  She holds out both hands, empty, pushing at the air as if to thrust him away.  “You need to _leave_.”

“What’s happening, are you alright?”

“Go!  Get out!  Please, Cassian, you need to ** _go_**!”

Her face is pure with fear and horror.  He holds out his own hands, and they are shaking too.  “Jyn, what’s happening, what are you doing?”

“You can’t be here, you need to leave.  Please!”

There is a horrible silence and he looks at the two things she let fall; the purse, spilling its contents, and the sliver of bent durasteel.

“What are you doing?” he says again.  His voice sounds twisted, tight as though someone is turning a screw into it.  He knows what that thing is, gleaming on the floor there; and this can’t be real. 

Jyn looks down for a moment, then faces him again with a gasp.  Her eyes are wild, furious, hopeless.  “What does it look like?”

He knows exactly what it looks like.  But it can’t be, can’t be real.  “Jyn…”  He can only imagine one way to fit what he sees to what he knows.  His tongue stumbles on the words.  “W-who’s making you do this?  Is it your stepfather?”

Her face goes cold.  “He’s not my fucking stepfather!  And no, no-one is – this is something I have to do.”

“I know what those things are,” Cassian says, pointing.  His hand shakes and his voice slides quivering up and down an octave.  “Those are pick-locks.  You’re trying to pick the lock.”

“Yes.”

Her face stays impassive for a moment, and then is torn, as if she’s in agony.  The sight is unbearable and he steps forward and tries to take her by the forearms, to pull her to him.  She shakes him off angrily.  There are tears standing in her eyes and she sniffs loudly and wetly like a scared child even as her voice freezes with unhappiness.

“I’m breaking in.  This is what I came here to do.”

“I don’t understand.”

“This is what this was all about!” Jyn bursts out. “This is why I met you, this is why I was at that bar that time!  I’m a partisan, I’m here to steal data.  It’s only ever been about that.  Please, Cassian, they have CCTV, you need to get out of here.  Go and tell security, do the sensible thing, get out of here before you get caught and implicated!”

It’s impossible to get past the inner voice that keeps saying _this can’t be real, this can’t be real_.  As if this yelling confusion will clarify things if he lets it go on.  There’s no _can’t be_ about this; it’s real, it’s really happening.  A partisan?  What is she telling him?

“For the love of life, get out, please!” says Jyn.  The tears are on her cheeks now, and she dashes them away with a wild hand.  “You have to go!”

He’s near-blinded himself; he blinks and swallows, sniffs hard, choking on his grief and disbelief.  “Who’s making you do this?  I don’t understand!”

“No-one is making me, it’s what I came for, this is what I have to do.”

“No.  No, this can’t be true.  You’re lying, you’re making this up.”

“Making it up?”  Her voice rises again, shaking in frustration.  “How can you be so blind?  Cassian, it’s everything else that was a lie!  I’m a partisan, that’s what I _am_ , who I am!  Everything I do is to bring down the Empire.  I don’t know how you can live with yourself, smiling at a worm like Orson Krennic, doing his bidding.  You have a gift, you are an amazing artist, I’ll never regret knowing you and seeing your work.  But you’ve let it make you into a puppet of the most evil men in the galaxy.”

“You lied to me,” he says, and the enormity of it is just beginning to bite home.  “Why?  Jyn, why are you doing this to me?”

“Your family died because of them, just like mine.  Some of us have never had the luxury of hiding from that reality!”

“Hiding from reality?  I’ve worked my way up from nothing!  You know that!”

“No, Cassian.  It isn’t that simple.  This is the real world, this is what it’s like, hurt and betrayal, getting your heart broken, losing everything.  This is what it’s like for me; and if you’d ever had the guts to look up and see the flag over your head you’d know, this is reality for you, too!  You’ve taken your gift and made it a tool of the Empire.  Fine, if that’s what you want, good.  Be happy.  Be happy being no better than a Stormtrooper!  But I won’t do the same!”

A faint sound interrupts her; a rising beep, faint, then growing louder.  She looks around with a curse. “No, it’s too soon!”

The beep modulates into an alarm, a skittery high-pitched wailing that hurts his ears.

“Shit!” cries Jyn, whirling and running back to the door.  She grabs up the sandals, the bag, the pick-lock.  “Shit, shit!”  Turns back to him, eyes desperate; with anger, now, but also pain.  “For the love of life, Cassian, stop standing there gaping like a fool.  Get out before Security finds you!”  And with that she runs.

He’s rooted to the spot for a moment; then his feet carry him after her.  They race through the great hall of data stacks, right to the far wall, where a bank of high windows looks out over the city.  Jyn pulls a shiny disc from her purse, clips it onto the catch of the nearest window and taps it; there’s a hum, audible even through the sound of the siren, and a light flashes on and off; with a metallic groan the window springs open.  Jyn pushes it wide and leans out. “That’ll do,” she says into the wind.  She throws her sandals out into the dark casually and swings a leg over the sill, stuffing her clutch bag into the bodice of her dress.

“Jyn, no!”

She turns to him again.  “Cassian, get out!  Leave me, just go!”

“Please, come back!  We can – we can make this right – I’ll tell them there was a break-in, you got caught by the thieves, when I arrived they ran away – no, please don’t jump out of a second-floor window, Jyn no—“

She pulls something out of her up-do, one of the bright little hair-pins, and at the flick of a fingernail opens a spool of wire no thicker than a guitar string; loops one end round the broken window catch and gathers the remainder loosely in her hand.  Her eyes meet his; still full of tears, though her face is now weirdly calm.

“Forget me,” she says.  “Please, just get out of here.”

“Jyn!”

“Goodbye, Cassian.”

She leaps.  The strand of wire goes taut almost instantly and he hurls himself at the window in horror; looks down in time to see her swinging out from the wall of the Archives and letting go at the apex of her swing.  Her body flies through the darkness, skirts billowing out behind her like wings, pale and glittering; and she lands nimbly on the roof of the next building, fifty yards off and a full storey down.  He watches her run to the edge of the parapet and climb over, barefoot, and she vanishes out of sight, climbing neatly down hand over hand.

He makes himself pull the window shut before stumbling away.  Has he ever known her?  He’s been taken in more than he would have believed possible.  _It’s everything else that was a lie_ , she said.  Everything, a lie. 

Yet even after she’d torn into his life, ripped apart all his hopes as though she hated him, she went on telling him to get away.   _Forget me; please, just get out of here_ …

The alarm is still blaring, and Cassian starts to run, trying to get away from the hideous sound.   He gets as far as the lobby with the elevators before the security teams find him.


	21. Chapter 21

Jyn runs and climbs and leaps from rooftop to rooftop until she’s a dozen blocks away from the Museum and the Archives.  At last she risks descending to street level.  She lands on the balls of her bare feet in an alley behind a shop on smart Mereva Prospect; crouches down, panting for breath, dizzy and despairing.  She was so near; and she fucked up. 

She has to get home.  Maybe if she and Saw and Captain Rook all put their heads together they can find a way to get her back inside before it’s too late.  Maybe Rook’s pet droid will come up with something, after all it boasts often enough about specialising in tactical analysis.  Maybe if she can hold back the tears and the howl of frustration hanging in her throat, and get back to Old Town without being seen; maybe, maybe, this isn’t the end of all hope.

She hauls herself upright, leaning on the dirty wall, gulping in air.  There has to still be some way she can finish her mission.  She knows where to look now, which level, which shelf, which code name to hunt out.  Her mind flinches away at the memory of that file name, too, too terrible to think about; but she was near, so near! 

She should have knocked Cassian out when he first appeared, should have snatched up her truncheon and just hit him on the skull.  Why, dear life _why_ didn’t she have the simple common sense to do that?  Whatever in all the hells possessed her, to stand and argue with him, to try and explain herself?  She doesn’t owe him anything.  She can’t afford to owe anyone anything if they stand between her and the cause. 

The anguish on his face burns her mind, red-hot like steel in the fire, searing her memory.  She fucked up, she failed her mission, and she killed the only thing approaching real love that she’s known since she was a child.  Cassian’s despair, burning her.  _This is what happens when you let yourself care, when you let anything, anyone, in_. 

When she raises her hands, they are shaking.  She glares at them, at her own frailty; breathes, focusses, waits until they grow still.  Carefully she adjusts her skirts, tying back the top layer of silk so the embroidery and beading are masked and will not glitter in the streetlights.  She pulls the purse from her bodice and smooths the fabric back in place, draws herself up and walks down the alley and onto the street, carrying herself like a queen or a dancer, head high, stance poised.  As if she has every reason to be out at night in a ball dress and bare feet, and anyone thinking to question that deserves only contempt.  She crosses Mereva Prospect and heads into the first side street.

It takes almost an hour, navigating a circuitous route along back ways; crossing the financial district, threading through the residential quarter between the Archives and Belén Street.  It would have been far quicker to take the city-trans or even a tuk-tuk, but public transportation will be far too dangerous once the break-in is announced; and it surely will be, before long.  Cassian will have been arrested by now.  She is walking away and leaving him to face Force alone knows what nightmare. 

She is walking away because she has only one chance of finishing her mission.  Better to be slower, to be on foot and in the shadows, on unremarkable streets; better by far to be slow and stay safe. 

Jyn blesses the years of training exercises that toughened her body, but she is footsore even so.  Her heart is the more sore, by far; but she cannot listen to it, cannot turn back, cannot do anything to take that pain away.  That pain, or the pain she’s caused, tonight. 

She goes down the alley and in by the rear door, and finds a meeting in full swing; and a silence like a vacuum falls. 

There must be twenty or more of her comrades here; Leevan, Weeteef, all the humans, Beezer and the other Twi’leks, both the Two-tubes brothers; even Maia and a handful of grim-faced teens and children, some almost as young as she was when she joined Saw.  Bodhi Rook and his droid, too; he’s standing in the middle of the room with his head bowed, the droid at his back resting one giant hand gently on his shoulder. 

Saw sits in the centre, in the big adapted seat with the supplementary oxygen tanks attached, holding his walking staff like a sceptre of office. 

His face is grim.  Every face she sees is the same; grim, or angry, or tear-stained.  Something’s happened, and here she is arriving with news that can only make things worse. 

Saw heaves himself up out of his chair, reaching one hand out to her; his face and voice are both desperately eager as he says “Jyn!  My child!  Do you have it?”

Twenty pairs of eyes stare at her, all alike seeking their last hope; and Jyn chokes on her shame.  She shakes her head weakly.

Bodhi had looked across at her like all the rest; he closes his eyes and half turns away, looking very small suddenly against the grey bulk of K-2SO. 

Saw’s face grows cold and he inhales raggedly, lips narrowing, eyes hard as frost.  He thrusts his staff into the air, slashing around him as if striking unseen enemies, and his troops cringe away.  “Get out!” he shouts.  “All of you, get out!  You know your tasks; go to your places, go!”

In a hideous silence the cadre disperses.  The contempt in their eyes strips Jyn like acid.  As Moroff shuffles away last, she sees that Captain Rook has stopped in the doorway.  He hovers, glancing back, keeping in the shadows.  His face is a mask, mouth a bare line, eyes black, unreadable.  The droid lurks silently behind him.

Jyn is left standing before Saw, shivering with weariness and strain.  He stares at her as though she’s a pebble, a speck of scum floating in his food. 

“You’ve failed me.”  His voice is deceptively calm after the outburst of a few seconds earlier.  “Why have you failed me, Jyn? – how could you do this?”

“I was so near,” Jyn says desperately.  “ _So near_.  There wasn’t enough time, the alarm went off, but I know exactly where to go, what to look for.  Send me back!”

“You _failed_ me.”

“No!  Please, Saw, no, don’t say that!  Just get me back there – we still can do it, we can break in, it was always the back-up plan, wasn’t it?  I just need five more minutes in there and you’ll have your plans.”  Bodhi is still waiting in the door and she turns to him, pleading for support.  “It’s a mezzanine, second floor, north wing, protected by a force field and locked doors; get me inside and I know which bank of storage it is, which shelf, which code name to look for.  I can practically lead you straight to it.  I just need a bit more time!”

“There is no more time,” Saw tells her.  “They tested the weapon, Jyn!  They did it.  The Death Star is operational.  The Alliance will fall apart when the news reaches them.  They’ll creep away in fear, crumble just as they’ve always done; they’ll never be willing to agree to strike, not now.”  His voice starts to rise again, a rhetorical fury verging into hysteria.  “We’ve lost our only chance, waiting for you to play your way through this farce with your boyfriend!  You told me you could do it and you’ve **failed**!”

“That’s not fair!” Jyn’s misery bursts out of her, a wild shout of rejection.  “You _made_ me go back!  I tried to tell you it wasn’t going well, I told you it might take too long!  You can’t lay this on me!”

“You’ve **failed me**!” he roars.  It’s the voice of childhood punishment and she cringes instinctively.

She has to stand her ground; shaking bodily, holding her head up, refusing to back down, she asks “What did they do? – the test, tell me what they did?”

Saw’s eyes slide to the doorway for a second, as if debating whether to order the Captain away.  Before he can make up his mind what to say Bodhi Rook answers. “They targeted the Holy City.”  He sounds hoarse.  “NiJedha.  It’s gone.  Completely destroyed.”

“A whole city?” – and then the name strikes and –“wait, you mean _Jedha City_?”

“Yes.”  He swallows and she realises; the mask-like face is in fact a self-control beyond anything she’s known.

“Over one million innocent souls, wiped-out like moths,” Saw rasps.  “Captain Rook here just lost his entire family.  And our last chance to win a way back onto the Council is gone.”

Bodhi flinches minutely.  She thought her heart was broken already, but at the sound of Saw casually juxtaposing his own frustrations with the captain’s loss, equating them, the fragments inside her seem to break still more. 

“Pease,” she says, holding out her hands towards them both.  “Please, listen to me!  They can’t move the Secret Archive straightaway, there’s still a chance.  Just get me back inside – or go in yourself – your droid, he could get you in!  We haven’t lost, we can still stop them doing this to anyone else.  You need to get into the second-storey mezzanine, find a file called Stardust.”  Her voice shivers at the name, at the terrible stroke of luck, and the unimaginable pain, it represents.  Fifteen years they must have gone on using that name after he chose it; never knowing that one day it would tell her the one thing she needed to know.

Bodhi’s eyes have gone wide and he opens his mouth and shuts it again, his lips working; he gasps and swallows again. “Your father named it that.”

“Yes, he must have named the project when he still worked for them, when I was a child, they can’t ever have changed the code name – but – how do you know that?”

They stand staring at one another in disbelief.  K-2SO leans past Bodhi and fixes Saw with the revolving glitter of his eyes.  “You haven’t told her,” he remarks coldly.

“Shut up, K.”  The captain’s hand knocks on his chest plate angrily, pushing him back.

“He hasn’t shown her the message,” K-2 says.  “He still hasn’t—“ 

“Shut up!” Bodhi turns sharply away; moves off into the passage, shoving the droid ahead of him with his palms on its chassis.  “Out of here, out!” 

K-2 retreats before him with a last haughty comment of “I think that was very unwise of Saw Gerrera.  Don’t you?”

When Jyn looks back to her adoptive father, Saw’s eyes are cold and affectless again.  Now more than ever she feels like a bug in his sight; and she has no idea why, because this is not the anger of her failure, but some other thing.  He says nothing, just examines her with that icy detachment. 

At last she manages to speak. “What message? – what is that droid talking about?”

He inclines his head, thinking; grips the arms of his seat and heaves himself upright.  “Very well.  Very well, you shall see it.  And then perhaps you will understand how utterly you have betrayed me, and the cause!”

He shuffles across the room to a small storage unit under the shuttered window and pulls open a tiny drawer; extracts a data chip no bigger than his forefinger and waves it at her as though warning her.  Makes his careful way back to the throne.

“What’s that?  What are you doing, Saw?”

And then he places it in the arm of the chair and activates it, and a projection springs to life, standing between them in the middle of the room, shimmering.  It’s the figure of a man in his middle years, thin and weary looking, dressed in an Imperial uniform.  Sad eyes look out at her from a sad face; a face so familiar Jyn gives a wordless cry of shock.  It’s her father.


	22. Chapter 22

It’s an image Jyn has never seen before.  She had a tiny holo of her parents once, until it was mislaid in some raid or other, running from a compromised base with Stormtroopers coming in, and no time to gather personal belongings.  Since losing that, all she’s had is her dim memories.  Now suddenly here he is, a full-body holo-image near her own height, gazing out at her with a haggard, weary face.

He looks so old.  Far, far older than she remembers.  So old, so unhappy, so drawn and drained.  It can only mean one thing.  He didn’t die on Lah’mu.  He lived.

“I don’t understand,” she whispers, fighting off the understanding, knowing it will break her if she allows it in.  “Where did you get this?”

Saw does not answer, only presses the projector key again.  The holo judders, lines of static running through her father’s tired face; and slowly, in an anxious, flat tone, he begins to speak.

“Saw, if you're watching this, then perhaps there is a chance to save the Alliance –“  – it _is_ him, it’s her father, it’s _her papa_ , she’d know the sound of his voice anywhere - “Perhaps there's a chance to explain myself and, though I don't dare hope for too much, a chance for Jyn, if she's alive, if you can possibly find her, to let her know that my love for her has never faded and how desperately I've missed her.  Jyn, my Stardust, I can't imagine what you think of me...”

Jyn’s hands have risen to her face and she presses her lips closed, trying to stifle a little moan of grief.  Yes, he’s still alive; alive, and broken.  And wearing that hated uniform.  

She listens in growing horror to the recorded words as he describes his despair.  _My father, my father is alive.  He worked for them; they made him, he gave in, they tormented him until he gave in.  Papa, my Papa._

_Papa, come back to me…_

“As time went by, I knew that you were either dead or so well hidden that he would never find you.  I knew if I refused to work, if I took my own life, it would only be a matter of time before Krennic realized he no longer needed me to complete the project.  You may think that’s an excuse.  That I was fearful, and should have died.  In the interests of objectivity—I should admit the possibility.  History will forgive me or excoriate me, as is appropriate.  I only wish it would forget me.”

She’s never forgotten; and nor has he.  She doesn’t want to cry, not in front of Saw as he stands staring at her with his interrogation face on.  But this is a pain like nothing she’s ever known.  Fifteen years, she’s believed him dead and buried.  Fifteen years he’s suffered, held captive by his enemies.

“I did the one thing that nobody expected,” she hears Galen say. “I lied.  I learned to lie.”   _Papa, oh Papa…_

He describes the project, its terrible potential, its destructive power and how soon it will be unleashed; and she recognises terms Saw used when he first sent her off to try and make contact with Cassian.  So he knew her father was alive, from the very first.  Perhaps he’d seen this recording even then.

“I’ve played the part of a beaten man, resigned to the sanctuary of his work, for so long, Jyn.  I made myself indispensable, and all the while I laid the groundwork of my revenge.   But I will never live to see it carried out.  I've placed a weakness deep within the system.  A flaw so small and powerful, they'll never find it.  So now I have to take this chance, this terrible final chance.  I’m sending this message to you today with someone I trust.  I never had your mother’s deep faith, but I can only say that something – fate, the Force, I don’t know – sent this young man to me, now when I needed him most.  Even if you no longer trust in the Force, Jyn, trust Bodhi Rook; he is a brave man, I’ve never met a braver, and I know he’ll do the right thing.”

It’s becoming harder and harder to listen; her breathing feels like fire, her jaw locked tight over the words, the cries of grief, she cannot let herself utter.  Her father, alive, desperate, despairing.  _But I can come for him, I’ll find him, I can save him now, I can bring him home!_

“Jyn - Jyn, if you're listening - my beloved, so much of my life has been wasted.  I try to think of you only in the moments when I'm strong, because the pain of not having you with me - your mother - our family - the pain of that loss is so overwhelming I risk failing even now.  It's just so hard not to think of you, think of where you are.  I assume logically, rationally, that you fight with the Rebellion.  It’s difficult to imagine Saw steering you any other way, and you always had the same anger—the same insistent sense of righteousness as your mother.  Yet if it isn’t so? If I’m wrong, and you left the Rebellion and Saw behind but this message still finds you?  If you found a place in the galaxy untouched by war—a quiet life, maybe with a family—if you’re happy, Jyn, then that is more than enough, and I am more proud of you than I know how to say.  My Stardust.”

It’s that, finally, that breaks her.  _Stardust._  Tears run down her cheeks at the sound of the long-ago name, at all the love in his voice.

She’s never come anywhere near finding that quiet life, until now; finding and losing the chance of it, all in the space of a bare two weeks, all because of this mission.  And it was this he wished for her; not to be a rebel or a soldier, but to be happy.  She’s gasping and gulping, helpless in the indignity of her sobs.  Oblivious to her grief, in the recording her father takes a deep breath and goes on.

“Saw, the reactor module, that's the key.  That's the place I've laid my trap.  It's well hidden and unstable, one blast to any part of it will destroy the entire station.  You'll need the plans, the structural plans, to find your way.  I know all Imperial records are stored on Coruscant, and there’s at least one complete engineering archive in the data vault at the Citadel Tower on Scarif.  But Krennic is paranoid; he kept a secret archive, private copies of every document, and even though he’s been moved from the project, I know he’ll still have them with him.  He was re-assigned to Corellia, to the Imperial Museum, and I know you have a base there.  This is your best chance to find the plans.  Use what I’ve told you, run the analysis, and you’ll be able to plan your attack.  Any pressurized explosion to the reactor module will set off a chain reaction that will destroy the entire station...”

His head swings to the side and his expression changes.  He bends quickly, reaching out as if to touch something; and the holo jolts and breaks up.

Jyn slowly sinks to her knees, staring at the empty space where her father’s image had stood. _Alive, alive, he’s alive_.  Her face is wet with the tears she barely registered falling.  It’s hard to breathe.  _Papa is alive_. 

He’s alive and he’s never forgotten her; and he’s worked for fifteen years, in secret, to try and undermine the very project he was taken from her to fulfil.  His revenge.

She scrubs at her face with one dirty hand.  Gasps for breath.  Her chest is still bound tight with shock, and words are hard to grasp; she catches them, drags them back to serve her.  “Where - where is he? – where was this recording made?”  Then a gabble as the possibility becomes more and more real, because he’s alive, he’s still alive – “We have to go to him!  We can get him out, set him free.”

“He’s on Eadu.”  Saw sounds dispassionate, weirdly uncaring.  How can he be so glacial?  This is her father, Galen Erso, her papa and his oldest friend, miraculously alive, contacting them, offering them vital information…  “But we cannot get him out.”

“What are you talking about? – of course we can!  We must!”  Speech becomes a torrent; Saw may still be frozen in his anger but everything inside her has thawed and the words rush out now.  “Saw!  You heard what he said, what he’s been doing all these years, the risks he’s been taking.  Bodhi knows where to find him.  We have to help him – we have to plan an extraction!”

“There will be no extraction.  There’s no need.  Your father was Captain Rook’s informant.  He won’t be leaving Eadu.  Not ever.  But if you wish, if it will console you, then you may go there, since you have proved so useless here.  Tell him how you failed him.  Lay flowers on his grave.”

“But –“

She can’t breathe.  _But he’s alive, he’s alive -_

Every muscle locks tight, the hinge of her lungs rusted to immobility in an instant.  Her heart thunders but everything else is steel-hard, as though her body were built of bolts and bars, of blinding light and agony.  “But –“

_My source was executed for treason a few days ago, along with his entire team.  He trusted me, and now he’s dead…_

Bodhi Rook, with so much regret in his quiet voice.  She’d thought she was reading him, spotting his tell.  How blind she was. 

_He wasn’t given to panic as a rule,_ he’d said. _He was probably the bravest man I’ve ever met…_

Papa was alive for all this time, alive and fighting, and she knew nothing, and now he’s dead indeed, and it’s too late. 

The bolts binding her heart shatter momentarily and she inhales, breath rushing in so sharply it sounds like a scream; claps both hands to her mouth, stifling the sound, and once more cannot breathe.  It’s like a nightmare; the lung-devouring vacuum of nothing, the enormity of the truth.  Jyn struggles; she breathes again, freezes again.  Forces her eyes to stay open, to stay aware, to see through the blinding tears.  Her own hands like knotted dead things at the base of her field of vision, her discarded purse on the dirty floor below.  The entire room seeming to sway around her.

She cannot crawl under a shelf and die there, like the insect she is in Saw’s eyes.  She makes herself inhale, sob out another exhalation, inhale again.  Lowers her shaking hands onto that dirty floor and pushes upwards, getting to her feet, dizzy, her heart shuddering inside her.  She’s a broken piston, a single crashed wheel spinning in the air. 

“You _knew_.”

Saw purses his lips, judgemental and bitter.  He knew, and he didn’t tell her.  Will he claim even this was done to protect her?  Even this was justified, for the sake of the cause?

“You knew, and you didn’t tell me, and you tell me this **_now_**?”

She launches herself at him, gripping the arms of his seat, her face mere inches from his.  For a moment she would like to spit at him; but the face staring back at her is cold and old.  He cared for her once; she was so sure of it.  She did everything he ever asked of her.  She has broken her heart in pieces for him.

“Was he still alive when you first heard about this?  Could you still have helped him, if you’d acted then?”

Silence; a gasping breath and a glare.

How could he do this to her, how could he ask for everything and then betray her? - call her ‘my child’ and then lie to her like this? 

She prizes his fingers up from the projector slot in the chair arm.  “Give me that!”  The holo-chip springs out as she triggers the catch, and she grabs it and pulls away before Saw can snatch it back.

“That intel does not belong to you!” he rasps.

“You’re right.  If it’s anyone’s it’s Bodhi’s.  It certainly isn’t _yours_!”

The chip fits into her palm, a flat sliver of titanium and plasteel, cool to the touch.  She folds her fingers over it in a desperate grip.  Bends to pick up her purse from the ground.

“You needn’t bother expelling me from the cadre.  I quit.”

Saw’s breathing is starting to rattle and he fumbles for the oxygen.  As Jyn straightens he is wheezing into the respirator mask.  His eyes follow her, furious and devastated.

The hideous sound of his breath is the last thing she hears as she heads down the passage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to NewLeeland and ibohemianam for helping me with the full text of Galen's message in canon - you two are awesome and generous!


	23. Chapter 23

Cassian sits in the Café Momus, at the tucked-away table with the green half-lights beside it.  Jyn’s table, where he first saw her, with the light gleaming on her lips and her downcast eyes.  He’s had three doubles of Chandrilan rum and the lights are starting to spin, as though his anger has struck them and set them all dancing.  Perhaps another drink will help clear his head; ease the dizziness, stop the screaming ache inside him.

They let him go.  He can’t understand it.  He expected to be in prison by now, but they let him go.

The security men had worn uniforms with dark, masked helmets; they looked uncannily like some private branch of the Imperial armed forces, though surely they had to be civilians.  They dragged him from the lobby into a corridor, and down to a small office.  It was hot, brightly lit, stifling.  He was shoved into a seat and an officer built like a Wookie stood over him, pushing the barrel of a blaster in his face.  He sat sweating and shaking, sick to his stomach, for what felt like hours.  It cannot have been near so long, but every minute was unfathomable, time drowned in grief.

His hands are shaking now; just as they shook then.

The hot-metal smell of the blaster and the stink of the guard’s sweat and his own, all mixing into a heady cloud of fumes. 

The light was too bright.  He’d wanted to close his eyes but didn’t dare.  He was trapped and now he had no choice but to see; see his stupidity, his weakness, see where this would end.  See it through, into the places his worst fears had always led; to prison, to death, to the failure of everything he’d ever done just to stay alive. 

And then Director Krennic had arrived.

_-My dear boy, whatever has been happening?  Of **course** this is a misunderstanding!  Just sit tight for two ticks and I’ll see to it that you’re released at once._

He’d stood up, gaping like a scared child, staring at this unthought-of rescue.  Within minutes he was walking back to the ballroom, personally escorted by the Director.  Krennic smiling, sad-eyed; smiling and commiserating with him. 

_-They’ve shown me the security footage, it’s very clear what happened.  You’re not the first poor fellow to be taken in by a pretty face.  Heavens, I was myself – I thought the girl charming!  Now don’t worry your head about this.  My dear chap, you’re shaking!  Perhaps you’d prefer not to return to tonight’s celebrations, hmm? – in the circumstances? – I quite understand…_

Cassian had said “I think I’d like to go home, Director, if that’s okay –“ and a floater-cab had been called, billed to Krennic’s account; it whisked him home in minutes. 

But one look at his paintings of Jyn, glowing, beautiful, beloved, and he had run down the stairs again and crashed out into the square.  There was a shriek of pain ringing through his mind, uncomprehending, unbearable, a dancing, piercing knife of inner sound.  Everything else was numb.

Another glass of rum, clear brown, spicy, sugar-sweet.  Sink the horror of this night, saturate it till it cannot float.  Stupefy every thought.

_How could she do this? **How could she do this to me?**_

_I don’t understand, I don’t understand, I am never going to understand…_

“Wotcha, mate,” says a warm voice, cheerful in his ear.  He looks up into the dear familiar face of Tivik, and feels his own face fall into wreckage at the kindness and friendliness, the innocent good-humour there.  

Tiv gapes. “Aww, krif, Cass, what the bloody hells is up?”

He can’t speak.  His mouth opens, making an ugly gasping noise, lips fumbling for the solidity of a single word.  He’d like to cry at the concern in Tiv’s eyes.

“Jyn…” He chokes it out at last, shaking his head in misery.  “She’s gone…”

Tivik’s eyes go even wider.  “What the krif?  Is she okay?”

“She lied to me.”

The unmistakeable look of relief tells him Tivik had imagined worse; prison, maybe, or death.  “She’s gone off with another guy? Aww, _krif_ …”

But if Jyn has now told him the truth of herself at last, then it’s all too likely that prison and death _are_ what lie ahead for her.  The thought of her captive, beaten, enduring everything he’d thought would be thrown at him, is unbearable.  Cassian sobs.  He grabs at his drink and drains it to try and drown the sound.  Forces words out instead of tears.  Angry, tangled words that trail, shaking, in the tracks of his unhappiness.  “Not another guy, no.  But she was lying to me.  All of the time.  All of it was a lie.  She left me!  She never really cared about me at all – and I don’t understand – because if she didn’t care why did she keep telling me to run? – it doesn’t make sense – Tiv, she never really wanted to be with me, it was all a lie…”

“Hold on, hold on, calm down.  Kriffing hells, Cass.  How much of that Wookie piss have you had?  You’re not making sense.”

“I was her _mission_.  Her _fucking **mission**_ , that’s all I ever was, that’s what it was all about, right from the start, just a mission!”

“What the hells?” Tiv stares at him in bewilderment.  “What the krif do you mean?  How can she have a mission, that doesn’t make sense, Jyn’s not a soldier…”

“She’s with the fucking partisans!”

“Cass, mate –“ Tivik pulls out the other seat and flops down in it heavily.  “come on, start at the beginning.  Talk to me.”

“I wanna die.”  Cassian is suddenly aware his words are slurring.  “Dammit!  I wanna ‘nother drink!”

“Okay, okay, we’ll get you another drink in a minute.  Just talk to me, okay, mate?  Tell me what happened?”

So long as he’s been sitting here alone, drinking, he’d been able to contain himself.  But somehow it’s much harder to remain in control in the face of this sympathy.  He sinks his head in his hands, feeling tears on his cheeks; gives another sob and hears it rack his voice up and down through half an octave.  “Why would she do this to me?  I don’t understand…”

His mind shies away from going on.  He knows that once he’s found the words and spoken them, and been heard, it will all be inescapable.  So long as no-one knows, it can still feel unreal.  But it is real.  He has to get through this somehow. 

At least he can be sure this is a friend, someone he can trust.

But he had trusted Jyn.  Had been so sure of her. 

Tivik has to coax the story out of him in broken scraps, fuelling him with more rum, listening with worried eyes.  If Tiv thinks he’s had too much to drink then he must be looking pretty bad.  He doesn’t care.  Why care about anything, now?  His life is utterly, undeniably, shatteringly fucked.  He stumbles to the end of his explanation, and now he’s really crying.  He turns away, wiping his face furiously on his shirt sleeve.  His best shirt; he’s still wearing the clean white linen he put on so joyfully only a few hours ago.  His eyes are sore, his throat hurts, closing like a fist on more tears.  He drains his glass again and bangs it down, puts a shaking hand over his eyes.  “I just don’t understand how she could do this to me, none of it makes any fucking sense…”

“Okay….  Krif…  Okay, so, right, so, she’s a partisan, you say?  Yeah, that’s weird straightaway, innit?”

It isn’t the word Cassian would have used; he blinks at his friend.  “ _Weird_?”

“Well yeah, like, usually they’re into, you know, partisan-y stuff, blowing things up, assassinations, that kinda thing.”

“Terrorism,” Cassian says hollowly.  _I fell in love with a terrorist.  Force forgive me_.

He sees Jyn’s pleading face, her angry despair; hears her voice again, urging him to get out, to do the sensible thing and run.  It still doesn’t make sense.  _Force forgive us both_ …

“But if they’re sending people to, like, steal something,” Tiv goes on “Then it’s gotta be something pretty big.  Like, Empire-bustingly big.  They wouldn’t just go risking personnel like that, not in jobs where they could get caught, not unless it’s something kriffing serious.  It’s gotta have been something really important; I mean, it’s the most important fight in the galaxy, right now, right?”

“But it’s not _my_ fight!”  Cassian bursts out.  “I’ve been trying to keep out of it since I was six years old!”

“I know, I know, mate.  ‘Cos you know just what it can mean to get in the Empire’s bad books,  I mean, they killed your family, right?”

“Right!”  It’s getting harder to link words up coherently.  The lamps are shivering overhead.  He remembers touching Jyn’s cold hands,  sitting at this very table, looking at those same lamps.  Remembers her holding him, just this morning, her laying her head on his breast as she told him what had happened to her family.  He’s not the only one who lost everything, he thinks, and curls in on himself in misery.  He chose just to try and survive; maybe she chose to do something about it.

Tivik sighs.  “Aww, man…  I’m so sorry about all of this.  It’s just kriffing shit and you don’t deserve it.  And you’re right, it still doesn’t make sense - she could’ve told you, she could’ve trusted you with it, couldn’t she?  You’d probably have wanted to help if you’d known.”

Have wanted to help? – hells, no, he would’ve run fifty klicks if he’d known.  He’s too much of a coward to do anything else.  A lifetime of keeping his head down and his eyes averted will do that to a man.  He knows Tiv wants to make him feel better, but the transparent wrongheadedness of his kindness makes Cassian hang his head.

He would have run, and left her to fight.  _I thought I loved her.  A coward’s love, not worth much to someone whose eyes are open._

“I mean,” says Tiv, on a roll now “You love her, don’t you?  And we do the right thing for the people we love, right?  And krif knows she loves you…”

“I don’t think so…”  The taste in his mouth is sour from liquor; the lights in the darkness are painful to see, so bright, so beautiful, shining on his stupidity and his broken hopes.

“Kriffing hells, Cass!  That girl is crazy about you!  And you’re crazy about her.  I never saw two people so moon-and-stars-y over one another in my kriffing life!  If she’s put this – this mission – ahead of you there’s got to be a reason.”

The bitterness makes him say “Like, she’s a terrorist?  Or like she never loved me at all?”

“They’re not kriffing terrorists.  Honestly, listen to yourself.  They’re kriffing freedom fighters.  This _is_ an occupied planet, you know?”

“You’re quoting Mayneta now,” Cassian says wearily.

“Well, yeah.  But only ‘cos she’s right!  But that’s not my point.  Listen to me, Cass, man.  There’s gotta be someone who sent her on the mission, right?  Someone who could make her do something even if she didn’t want to?  If she’s really a partisan then it figures she’s gonna have a commanding officer, yeah?”

“You mean she was _just following orders_ , like they always say?”

“Well, she didn’t just wake up and go ‘I’m gonna betray my boyfriend today!’  Like you said, it was a mission.  That means someone **sent her** to do it.”

_-Don’t forget your purse, Jyn!_   

That kindly, paternal embrace as Saw handed over the clutch bag with the pick-locks.  The bag she had almost left behind.

“Saw.”

“You saw?  What did you see?”

“No.  Saw!  Saw Gerrera.  Her – the guy who adopted her when her family were murdered.  She’s scared of him.  She kept telling me everything’s okay, but I could tell she’s scared of him just the same.  I can see it every time she talks about him.  I know Jyn!”

“And that’s the key thing, innit?  You **know** her.”  Tivik’s voice is triumphant.  “That’s why you don’t understand, mate!  There’s bits missing from the story!”

“Yes,” Cassian says, feeling fire inside him suddenly.  “Yes!  Otherwise why’d she keep begging me to go away and leave her?  She was trying to stop me from getting arrested!  She didn’t want to do this – it has to be that – he _made_ her, that son of a pig.”

Tivik leans back, a crease appearing between his brows.  “Mind you, you’re kriffing lucky you _weren’t_ arrested, from what you’re telling me it’s a bloody miracle…”

“The Director trusts me,” Cassian reminds him mournfully. 

And with that, he sees it.  Director Krennic trusts him.  He could have gone in and just got this – whatever it is – if Jyn had asked him to help her.  He could have; maybe he wouldn’t have, but the possibility was never tested.  He can test it now.  All he needs is to know what he’s looking for and make an excuse to go back.  It makes sense the moment he sees it, a cold clear sense that cuts through all the anger and grief, the thick fumes of alcohol; a bright choice, sharp as Mayneta’s little vibro-blade.  He can still make the right choice after all.  “I can fix this.  I’m gonna get that asshole what he wants and I’m gonna make him let Jyn go.”

“What?  No, wait, hang on, mate, that doesn’t sound like such a great idea.”

Cassian stands up, shoving his chair back with a violent push.  “I’ve been running away my whole life.  Refusing to look up for twenty years.  Refusing to look at anything; I owe Jyn this, she made me see things differently.  I can still make this right.”

Tiv’s face is anxious and confused.  “Cass, come on, man, don’t do something stupid now…”

“I’ve already done the stupid things.  Now I’m gonna do the right thing.  For once in my fucking life I’m gonna do the right thing!”

He hauls his suit jacket off the chair back and fights his way into it.

“Where are you going?” 

“To a tailor’s shop in Old Town,” Cassian says “To find Saw fucking Gerrera!”


	24. Chapter 24

Jyn is all-too used to having to remain composed in the midst of pain; having to keep moving or keep fighting, keep smoothly telling the same lies when exposure appears imminent.   Now should be no different.  She can do this, she’s done it many times; _so many times_. 

She climbs the creaking stairs at a near-run, taking the treads two at a time, and shuts the door of her room, hard.  Gets as far as stripping off her dress and struggling out of the whale-boned bustier; rips off the jewelled hairclips and the thigh holsters. She’s pulling on a pair of plain grey pants and a vest top when suddenly it hits her again, like a blow under the ribs knocking the air from her.  Her father was alive, and now is dead; she’s betrayed the man she loves and betrayed the cause, and she has failed.  

This time, she breaks.

She’s on the floor.  She’s been lying there crying for a long time, too long, she knows, she’s aching and sick from it now, huddled in a ball, stifling her sobs in an old shirt. 

She had meant to put that on next, that shirt, sensible, practical, warm; a shirt and then a jacket; had meant to pack a bag, arm herself, run.  But she’s weeping helplessly and has been for more than an hour.  She’s cold inside and out and shaking so much she can hardly move. 

The memory chip, the last piece of her father, the message she got too late.  It’s lying on her narrow bed next to the discarded dress and purse.  Why did she bother to take it?  Precious, useless, treasure, this one last chance to hear his voice. 

He’d still been there, right there, just a few hours away down some hyperspace lane or other.  Only two short weeks ago he’d been thinking of her, reaching out in hope to her and praying she was alive and well.  And she’d never known.  She whimpers, curling up on her side on the dusty floorboards.  Pulls her feet up, covers her face with wet hands.  Her throat hurts, and her diaphragm; her nose is running so thickly it’s hard to breathe.  She chokes, getting air in, and again getting it out; her lungs and belly are flayed inside, mind raw with grief. 

She has to stop.  Has to gather her things, pack her bag.  She has to get up, get out.  Out of this house and out of this life. 

She’s never been anything but a tool in Saw’s hand.  She thought he loved her; she did everything he ever asked.  But he knew her father was still alive.  He must have been lying to her from the very first; he can never have seen Galen’s body, much less have buried him beside Lyra.  Galen was never laid to rest, never slept in the generous black earth on far-off Lah’mu.  The one place that was ever a real home.

Corellia isn’t home anymore; it cannot be, now.  She’ll never have a home again, nor anyone to reach out for in trust and hope.  She’s failed them, betrayed them, all of them, everyone who had faith in her.

She hears footsteps in the attic passage outside, and straightens her legs to push against the closed door, bracing it shut.  Silences her mouth as best she can, stuffing the wet shirt fabric on top of all sound.  Lies gasping, waiting; but no pressure comes against her soles and after a time, softly, the footsteps move away.  Maia, perhaps, or one of the children, that’s who he will have sent to check on her. 

Fuck them all.  She’s leaving.

Jyn hauls herself to her knees, to her feet; staggering, swaying, fighting and mastering herself.  The shirt she’d planned to wear is dark and stained now.  No point in pretending it’s still wearable.  She uses it to wipe her face thoroughly and discards it.  There are others; it just means she’ll have only two shirts in her new life, not three.  She pulls one of them on and rolls the other up to pack. 

Her new life.  She’s never once even in her darkest moment considered the idea of leaving the partisans.  Where in all the hundred hells is she going to go? 

She fastens her gun-belt round her hips and settles the blaster where she can draw it quickly; straps her truncheons on again, the twin holsters hugging her thighs.  Clips as many rounds of ammo-charges as she can find onto the belt.  Pulls a back-pack from the closet and stuffs the shirt in it, and her spare blaster.  Adds the long vibro-blade with the blue handle; attaches a pocket knife to her waistband.  Adds some underwear and two pairs of socks to the pack, sits down to pull on another pair.  She’s still breathing hard and sniffing wetly; an occasional tear slides onto her cheek and is wiped away savagely.  She empties the pretty beaded clutch bag onto the bedding, discards the lipstick, pockets the cash and the set of pick-locks.

The clutch, the dress; she spares a glance at their discarded beauty and is disgusted to feel another wave of tears rising.  _It’s nothing, it’s just a kriffing dress_.  But Edrio and Saw had taken so much trouble in the end, to make it as lovely as possible.  Now it’s creased and torn, the hem grimy from trailing behind her as she walked through the back streets.  One of the bodice straps broke when she tore it off.  Her sparkling sandals lie somewhere on a rooftop now, useless in the starlight.

She was beautiful, for this one night.  It’s never been so before; but beauty was what she saw in the mirror, and in the eyes looking at her. 

She’ll never know that again, that’s for sure.  Beauty is no part of her life; never was, never can be again.  And nor are those loving eyes.

She shrugs on her waistcoat with the utility pockets, packs a rain poncho and her gloves and scarf; hairbrush, toothbrush and a jar of toothpowder; a couple of ration bars, a stylus and a small med-kit.  She has a few credit chips, a handful more scrip and coin in a purse.  Boots on her feet.  This is all there is to Jyn Erso; a small bag, her weapons, and the clothes on her back. 

At least as someone with nothing, she can go anywhere, blend in with anyone.  Vanish.

Go where?  Vanish where? 

Her father had wished her happy.  She chokes on another surge of grief, stands with her head down like an exhausted animal, willing herself on through it as though through a beating.  He had wished her happy and said he was proud of her.  Wearing that same uniform from her earliest memories. 

She remembers suddenly the smell of his clothes, his wet hair, the solid strength of his arms round her.   _Say you understand, Jyn.  I love you, my Stardust._

She sits down heavily on the bed, panting; but she has to go on.  She picks up the bag and wrestles the fasteners shut clumsily.

There’s movement and she looks up, to see the door has opened silently, now she’s no longer monitoring it.  Bodhi Rook is standing on the threshold, watching her.  His face is grave and sad, as sad as Galen’s was. _He knew my father, when I never did_ , she thinks, and cannot be certain whether she wants to hurt him for it or run to him for the words he can give her.  _Was my Papa able to rest, ever? did he know any peace, did he have any hope?  You could tell me; but you could have told me already, and you did not._  

The Captain’s eyes look sore and his mouth is a thin line downturned at the corners.  He lost his home and family today, she remembers.  If he’s concealed the truth from her, he’s certainly paying a high price for it.

“Why don’t you come in?” she says.  “I’m not going to try and hit you, you know.  Your droid wouldn’t let me anyway.  I assume he is lurking out there?”

Something dark shifts in the attic passage behind him and K2-SO bends down to peer in through the low door.  “That is correct.  There’s no need to make it sound like a bad thing.”

Jyn sighs. “Why don’t you both come in?”

Bodhi says very softly “I didn’t know if you’d want to see me.  I can go if you prefer.”

“My taking this out on you isn’t going to change anything.  Stop loitering in the doorway and come inside.  If there’s something you want to tell me then go ahead.”

“There is.”  He needs to bow his head to get in, and Kay behind him has to bend almost double.  He closes the door quietly behind the droid; straightens, stands looking at her again.  His face is grave and collected, mask-like, and she thinks how like her he is, he too has learned from years of experience how to be calm no matter how bad the pain. 

He says “I have no right to expect you to listen to me, but if you’re willing to, I wanted to tell you this.”

“Go on.”  She cannot let herself feel for him; their paths must diverge here.  What would be the point? 

But if he wants to apologise, it might ease the knots in her throat a little to hear it.

“I wanted to tell you the truth when I first got here.  Before that, even; when Galen told me about his family.  I advised Saw to tell you when I first made contact, as soon as I knew you were with him.  He refused.  When I arrived here I advised him to show you the message and he wouldn’t.  He said he’d already initiated a scheme to get into the Archives and he was using you as his agent, he didn’t want you distracted.  My orders were to win his trust, to treat him as a commanding officer, so I didn’t question his decisions.  Just as I didn’t question the decision to leave your father on Eadu in case he could gather more intel for the Alliance.”

“Are you saying that if you’d disobeyed orders, Papa might still have been alive?”

“It’s possible, I don’t know.  And, who knows, maybe a million Jedhans as well.  I’ve spent my whole life obeying orders, accepting that these things had to be done for the greater good.  But this is too much and I cannot – I find I cannot bear it.”

Jyn waits for a moment.  His expressive eyes are fixed on hers, but he says nothing more. 

“This isn’t an apology,” she points out.  “If you’ve obeyed orders you knew were wrong, that one’s on you, not me.  I won’t say it makes you no better than a Stormtrooper, but you can’t ask me to be glad about it, either.  What do you want me to say, Captain?”

“I –“ Bodhi starts forward and then turns away.  He twists back and forth like someone struggling physically; beside him, K2 sways as if trying to anticipate his next movement.  “I – I don’t know!  Damn it, can’t you be angry?  Yell at me, hit me!”

“I recommend you do not hit him,” K2 puts in quietly.

“I wasn’t planning to,” she tells the droid.  “I do have some common sense.   Captain Rook, listen to me.  If you’re trying to get me to vent my feelings so you can feel less bad about this – this **_fuck-up_** – well then you’re wasting your time.  I’ve been crying for the best part of an hour and I simply haven’t got the energy.  And anyway, right now I think you’re probably in a lot more pain than I could ever cause you.  You can’t begin to imagine what I’m feeling right now, and I can’t begin to imagine what you’re going through.  Can we let be?  I wish I could have asked you about my father, but I really don’t have time now, and I need to finish packing.”

Bodhi Rook stares at the bag as she thumps it down on the floor in front of her.  “Where are you going?”

“I haven’t a clue.  I just know I can’t stay here.  Not with Saw, not anymore.”

“No!  No…”  He’s rocking on his heels, fists clenching and unclenching, and it’s hard to believe she’d thought him composed a few minutes ago; suddenly he seems to be snapping before her eyes.  “No, you can’t just run away, you’re the only one who – tell her, K, tell her she can’t – please don’t do this –“ He sounds close to tears.  The droid swings its heavy head round to look at her, then turns back to him.

“There is only an 11.2% likelihood of convincing her at present, Bodhi.  If you wish to improve those odds, you will need to provide a more coherent argument.”

Jyn stands up.  “What are you both going on about?  I’m an adult and a free agent, I can go wherever I like.  I don’t belong to you or the Alliance.”

“Please.  Please, don’t just run.  Hear me out.”

“Okay,” she says, after he’s said nothing more for several seconds.  “Okay, I’m listening.”

“We’ve fucked this up, I think we can all agree on that.”

“Yes.  Yes, I would agree.”

“What if we made it right?  Go back in, like you asked?  Get the data, send it to the Alliance.  You said it yourself, downstairs, it was always the back-up plan.  But Saw’s decided it isn’t worth the risk, he’d prefer to go back to his old ways, back to sabotage and assassinations.  As if hiding from this will make it go away!  But he’s **wrong**.  We have to get those plans!  Your father would have his revenge.  And we’d have - no more massacres like Jedha, no more threat of worse, no more planet-killers.  K and I are going to try it.  We have to, we really don’t have a choice now.  And you - you could come with us.”

She considers the idea.  He looks eager, intent, his voice more alive than she’s known it.  Something seems to have brought him to a strange, manic life. 

And it’s true, they don’t really have any choice but to try.

“It’s a suicide mission,” she points out.

“For us, maybe.  Yes.  Maybe.  But –“ he leans forward, pointing at his companion as if inviting her to notice the droid for the first time – “ _not for K_.  If we can get to the plans and give them to him, he can get out past any amount of Imperial forces.  He can blend in, and he can carry them to Alliance headquarters.”  
  
K2 swings his head round; his focussing rings widen with a rasping noise.  “And leave you behind?  That is a bad plan, Bodhi.”

“No, it isn’t.”  He looks peeved.  “It’s the best plan we’ve got right now.  Go on, calculate the odds.  Can you honestly tell me there’s a better chance than this?  Think about it: They won’t be able to move Krennic’s secret archive tonight, that’s going to be a huge job; they won’t expect us to come straight back, since only a _fool_ would do that; we can get back in the way Jyn got out, since only an _absolute_ fool would do **_that_** ; it’s our best option and you know it.”

“Only because there are no _good_ options,” K says sourly.  “I have been advising other plans of action for the past two weeks but what do I know?  I’m only a specialist in strategic analysis.”

If she weren’t exhausted and broken inside, it would be funny.  “They’ll have no idea we’re coming.  It could work.”

“It **_could_**.  We could make it work.” Bodhi thumps one fist into the opposing palm, glares at the droid as it shrugs and grinds its gears grumpily.

And oh, how good it feels, to have some hope of mending what has been broken.  She can’t save her father, or herself, she can’t undo the pain she’s caused poor, kind, loving Cassian, can’t mend the broken heart, the shattered trust.  But she can do this.

It takes very little time to plan.  If you don’t expect to return, Jyn thinks, is there any point?   All they need to do is reach their objective, not come back.  Not alive.  Not now there’s really so little to live for. 

Ten minutes after she told him it was a suicide mission, the three of them are climbing out of the skylight.  They wait for a couple of minutes at the end of the gable while a tuk-tuk turns into Belén street.  As soon as the way is clear they set off across the rooftops of Coronet City, going silently beneath the silent stars.


	25. Chapter 25

Cassian’s driver doesn’t seem very keen on waiting, but he has a good deal of cash in his pockets and he thrusts a fat wad of the stuff at the man.  “Just wait at the corner, please!  I don’t know how long I’m going to be.”

He feels more trepidation than he’d anticipated as he raises his hand and pounds on the door of the tailors’ shop.  He left the Momus half an hour ago and is just beginning to wonder if he should have had just one more drink before setting out, just for courage.  He bangs the door again.  The tuk-tuk driver is fidgeting at the side of the lane.  Maybe this was all a really bad idea.

“Looks like there’s no-one home,” he says aloud, for his own benefit as much as the driver’s; and is turning to go when at last the door opens.  The Tognath from the shop peers out, skull-face pale in the street light, grumbling angrily into their mask.  Cassian draws himself up.  _Okay, here goes._

“I need to speak with Saw Gerrera.  It’s urgent.  Very urgent.”

There’s a moment’s silence, and then a gloved hand reaches out and grabs him, and hauls him inside roughly.  He just has time to glance back at the startled driver before the door is slammed and he’s in near-total darkness.  There’s a rattle as the beaded door-curtain is drawn back.  The Tognath is silhouetted by a faint light from the passage.  It mutters something at him, shakes the curtain.  He hesitates and then goes forward, trying not to stumble in the dark.

The corridor is longer than he expected and as they pass down it he can see strange rooms to either side; one looks like a gymnasium, another like a firing range.  Some of the doors are shut.  Snoring comes from behind more than one.

At the end is a large storage room, dark and stuffy, the air smelling of damp wool and dirt, the sweat of people both human and other.  There are bolts of cloth on shelves around the walls; a dressmakers’ dummy with a tailored jacket flung over it stands by a shuttered window.  And in the middle of the room, gazing stonily at him, the master tailor waits in an ugly durasteel disability chair, with his walking stick gripped before him in both hands like a quarterstaff.

Strange to remember the last time he spoke to Saw; arriving at the shop, daydreaming of asking for Jyn’s hand in marriage one day.  The sun was shining then, and everyone was happy, or seemed so.  Now there are no glad faces, and the shadows pack the room closely with dark.

_If I do nothing else good in the rest of this mess I’ve made of my life, I will help her to free herself from this man…_

“Mr Gerrera,” he says formally.  “Thank you for seeing me.”

It sounds almost as if he’s still preparing to offer for Jyn.  But then, in a manner of speaking, he is.

Saw says nothing in reply.  He looks ill and exhausted, and angry, his eyes are red-rimmed, breathing hoarse and sickly. 

Cassian draws himself up.  The last thing he wants, he tells himself, is to feel any compassion for this cruel old man.  “You sent Jyn to steal something from the Corellian Archives, didn’t you?  She was meant to befriend me so I would take her to the ball, is that right?”

Saw inclines his head briefly, all that deception, all that heartbreak, acknowledged in a single curt nod.  Cassian swallows.  It won’t help matters if he loses his temper, he has to remain calm if he’s to accomplish anything.

“I don’t think she managed to get what she wanted,” he says.  “What did you send her to find, Mr Gerrera?”

Saw shifts in his seat, inhales slowly, nostrils flaring as though in irritation.  At length he says coldly “This is not your fight, painter.”

It’s so nearly his own words that he cannot suppress a momentary giggle of anger.  “I know that!”  He inhales, trying to calm himself.  “But just the same, you’re a fool for not even asking me if I’d help you.  I could have gained access to those archives anytime.”

“You think I would be so stupid as to trust you?  And you call _me_ a fool?  _You are not one of us_.”

“Is that the best you can do?” It’s surprising how easy it is to feel sure of it, now; he was never asked to help, and he could have, he really could have done it for them, so easily.  “I really don’t care if you think I’m beneath you, sir.  I have a proposal for you.  Tell me what you’re looking for and I’ll go back and get it for you.  The Director trusts me, I can say I lost something tonight, left something behind.  I just need to know what Jyn was looking for.”  He takes a step back as Saw heaves himself out of the seat with a stifled groan.   “I’m trying to help you, man!”

The old man takes two shuffling, metallic steps towards him; his tired face is hard, its aggression worn but unwavering.  “Do not speak to me so, boy, this is my house and you know nothing of who I am.”

“I know you’re a partisan.  Probably a commander.  I know you sent your own daughter to rob the Empire sooner than ask for help from someone who could have done the job for you, just because I’m not one of your people and you don’t trust anyone who hasn’t been trained to follow your orders blindly.” 

Saw draws himself up, breath a mere rasp.  He grapples for his oxygen mask and sucks in hideous wheezing mouthfuls of air; he sounds like a broken creature, an animal tied unwillingly to life and tortured by it.  Cassian bites his lip.  How can someone so terrifying be so pitiable? 

“And now you are proposing simply to walk in and fetch the data we need?” Saw says at last.  “You come here, today, and tell me this?  Do you think I’m such a fool?”

“I have no idea what kind of fool you are.  All I know is you are destroying Jyn and I will not let you do that.  I’ll get you your data, if you tell me what to look for.  But in return you have to let her go.”

“Give her to you?” Saw begins to laugh, a faint gasping hysteria.  “You think I can do that?  It will not be so easy, boy!”

“I don’t ask you to give her to me.  She’s an adult, an independent woman.  Though I think perhaps she hasn’t been seen that way here.  I’m sure you’ll tell me I’m wrong.  But I know Jyn.  I get you your data and you let her go.  Release her from whatever hold this is you have over her.  Let her go free, go wherever she wants and make a new life.”

“Her own life - with _you_?” The mockery in the wheezing voice is poison.  “If she doesn’t want you, painter, then you’ll have risked your life for nothing.  You might never even see her again.”

Cassian steels himself to swallow the bitterness, to keep a calm face, a courteous voice.  Almost succeeds.

“If she had wanted me, it would have made me very happy, more happy than I know how to say.  But I know it’s impossible, now.  I just want her to be free to live her own life.  Promise me you’ll let her go, and I’ll do your dirty job for you and rob the Empire’s archives.”

There’s a long pause broken only by the continuing, painful sound of Saw’s breathing.  He wants so much to hate him, this pathetic, mean-spirited old man with his lies and manipulations.  And worse.  Cassian thinks of the shooting targets he saw in one of the side rooms.  How many people have come here and been trained to shoot and kill?  Did Jyn have to learn those lessons too? – is she someone kept for missions like this, for seductions and betrayals, or has she planted explosives and attacked Stormtroopers in convoy, throw rocks and gas canisters and grenades, waited in ambush for patrols?

How many people has she killed?

Saw is staring at him over the rim of the breathing mask.  The Tognath says something angry from the doorway and he gestures at them to be silent.  Cassian wonders vaguely what the remark was; Saw is watching him so closely he realises he’s waiting to see him react.  But since he doesn’t speak that language he’ll never know what was said.  Probably an insult.

Even if Jyn is a killer, she didn’t strike him when she had the chance.  It would surely have been simpler to do that, back then when he found her; but instead she begged him to run.  He clings to that memory as to his one hope of life.

“So what do you say?  Do you accept?”

The calculating eyes narrow for a moment and then Saw nods.  “I have nothing to lose, now.  None of us have.  You are looking for a data file called Stardust.  If you find it, bring it to me.  If you are caught, no-one will come for you.”

“I would not expect you to risk your real personnel for _me_.”

“Good.  I am glad we understand one another.   Even if you name me to their interrogators, I will deny all knowledge of you.  I’m just a humble tailor and you are clearly a madman.”

“Very well.  I’m a madman.  But in return for my insanity, I have your word.  If I get you your data, you release Jyn and let her go free to make a new life.  Do I have your word?”

“You have my word.”

He starts to reach out, hesitates, then completes the gesture.  Make the man shake hands on it.  But Saw does not blink or pause, only grips his hand firmly and repeats “You have my word.”

“Very good.  I’ll need a set of those lock-picking things, I don’t think she managed to open the last door.  I know how to use them but I don’t own any of my own.”

Saw nods his assent, gestures to the Tognath.  Moments later the little clip of tools is in his pocket, and he’s being led back down the passageway.  All the doors are shut now, save the one at the end, into the shop and the street.  He’s almost there when very faintly he hears Saw call after him.

“If she decides to go with you, promise me you will take care of her...”

He doesn’t answer; and the door shuts behind him with an incongruous chiming of bells in the darkness.

The tuk-tuk, after all, is still waiting.  He climbs aboard.  “The Imperial Corellian Archives, and go quickly.  It’s urgent.”

They swing out of the narrow lane and set off through the streets at speed.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for sadistic violence in this chapter. I've tried to keep the description from being too graphic but it isn't a nice chapter at all, I'm afraid.

The ball is clearly still going on when they arrive.  Several groups of guests are leaving as the tuk-tuk draws up.  Many of them look less than elegant now, after their hours of self-indulgence, of dancing and gorging themselves.  It seems an age ago that he was in there with them, drinking sparkling wine so blithely.  Smiling, happy, ignorant. 

But the lines of uniformed staff are still on duty outside and the flambeaux still burn by the doors.  Cassian glances at his chrono.  It’s not yet midnight.  The ride from Old Town took less than twenty minutes.  No wonder the party isn’t yet over.  Well, that makes his job a little simpler, anyway.

He pays the driver off in full and adds a good tip.  Strides up the stairs to the door; smiles affably at one of the doormen and gives his name.  “I had to leave early; but I forgot my scarf.  I think I know where I left it, I just popped back to see if it’s still there.” Popped back; the kind of term the Director would use, making everything sound like a game.

 _A worm like Orson Krennic_ , Jyn had called him.  _You’re a puppet of the most evil men in the Galaxy_.

He refuses to think about her words.  He stands smiling at the guards while they check his name and wave him in.

It’s all ridiculously easy; five minutes later he’s back inside the ballroom, and a waiter is offering him more of the same superb wine he drank several hours ago.  It truly is positively comical. 

He accepts a glass and drains it, snaps it back on the proffered tray; heads across the ballroom, threading through, between dancers bounding about in a three-step.  

Cassian sees how some of the women’s hair is coming down, sees that buttonhole flowers are wilting, the occasional shoulder strap is slipping off; sees dishevelled clothes, faces flushed with wine and exercise; dancing feet missing some of the steps now.  It would be beautiful, a happy sight telling of nothing but frivolity and lust and good-humour, were he still the man who arrived here six hours ago. 

The staff still hover, wordless, tireless, making themselves non-visible at the margins of the room.  There’s always someone in attendance, for those who require it, those who feel themselves diminished without.

When he passes the buffet table he sees it has been kept near-immaculate, all the dishes replenished.  The feast is endless, for those who eat.

He remembers Jyn’s fingers on his lips, the sweetness of cream and roses.  Nothing is truly endless, not even love.  He feels giddy for a second, the glass of wine heady in his blood.

He’s in the passage already; sidestepping round a drunken couple who cling together, groping and tonguing one another in the lee of the first Cadalia.  He tries not to wince at their crassness, and at the memory of being wrapped round Jyn, just so, of backing her up against the studio wall, not two days ago.  _Ignore them, look at the Great Art, just innocently look at the Great Art again_ …

He idles up the corridor to the corner, slips out of sight of the loving couple, the other ball-goers; hurries to the far door.  Easy, so easy.  A tiny flutter of laughter rises and he swallows it; mustn’t let the wine make him giggly.  But really; did he miss his proper career, after all that?  Should he have become a stealth burglar rather than an artist?  It seems all it takes is confidence.

The door has been reclosed, but as he suspected, it’s only the key-lock that can be engaged, now.  The inbuilt circuits Jyn fried are not so quickly replaced.  He inserts the bent needle of the lock-pick and feels it engage with something inside, something that resists and then slides.  Easy.  A click, and it seems that Tiv’s joking lesson of three years past was never forgotten; the tumblers of the lock slide round and at his experimenting touch the door springs open.  He pushes it shut again quietly behind himself and hurries to the elevators, and is carried up to the second floor, the vast chamber of data towers.  The force field gleams in the distance and he trots down between the banks of files towards it.  Even if Jyn had not managed to disable the last door, it surely won’t take him very long.  She was only prevented by his arrival, had already been at work on it.  And all he needs is to find a file called Stardust.

He bends at the door where he found her working; reaches into his pocket again.

Something grabs his elbow just as he draws his hand out, grabs and pulls hard, wrenching his arm back, throwing him off-balance.  The pick-locks fly from his hand and hit the floor.  He stumbles and falls to his knees, clumsy with drink and surprise; struggles for balance, looks round in horror into the face of a security guard, and a swinging fist.  Behind the man, lips pursed in disapproving amusement, is the Director.

The fist punches down, and he’s out. 

He wades up through a wash of darkness, gasping and dizzy.  His face is flat on the floor, the matt surface cool against his cheek.  He begins to push himself upright, and is pushed down again by a blow to the back.  The air is driven from his lungs by a precise kick, a boot slamming into his belly.  He gasps for air.  Pain snaps through him like the blasting of fireworks.  He grabs at the boot and it kicks him again, in the head; into the deep dark of midnight.

He comes to slowly and it’s clear he’s been unconscious for a spell.  His hands are bound and he is shivering with cold; his head rings like a struck gong.  There are fire-bursts of pain in other places, in his ribs and back and abdomen; his elbows, shoulders, wrists are sore, strained taut.  The surface against his face now is uneven and metallic; ridges of cold plasteel pressing into his aching body and outstretched arms.  When he tries to lift his head it drops, gravity pulling awry.  He’s not prone, not on the floor, this time.  He’s semi-slumped, semi-kneeling; held up by his bound wrists lashed to one of the data stacks.  The pain in his shoulders and arms is from joints wrenched, muscles pulled tight by his own dead-weight.

He drags himself into a better position, still on his knees but upright.  It takes the pressure off his shoulders, relieves some of the pain, but he’s still half-blinded and dizzy, vision shot through with dark flashes.  His face bumps against the protruding file latches on the stack.  He blinks, sucking in air.  He can see that his suit jacket has been stripped off; there’s blood on his white linen shirt sleeves and the fabric hangs oddly.  There’s a cold draught on his back.

“Who sent you?”

The voice is both familiar and frighteningly unfamiliar; he knows it, knows the accent, the timbre, but he’s never heard it speak so coldly.

“Director – please –“

“I asked you a question!”

There are no footsteps audible, but the movement of air is cold on his spine as Krennic comes closer.

“Sir…”  It’s hard to marshal his thoughts.  He had a story.  His shoulders ache in their sockets.  Force alive, how long has he been hanging there?  He had a story.  No, has; he _has_ a story.

“No-one sent me, I was looking for my scarf –“

“Oh **_really_** …”  Krennic’s voice is disgusted.  “I’m going to give you one more chance, since you’re being so _wilfully pathetic_ about this.  Who sent you to rob the Archives?”

“No-one sent me.”  It’s the literal truth, after all.  He volunteered.  His choice doesn’t seem so wise, or so easy, now, and he is dizzy with pain and confusion, and bitterly aware that there is still far more alcohol in his system than can possibly be good.  “I came back to look for –“

Something strikes him across the back; not the punch of a fist, this time, but a slashing blow that seems to curl into every rib with a sting like fire.  Cassian yelps in shock.  His legs give way at the impact and he hangs gasping.  He’s still panting through it when a second blow follows the first, a second stripe tearing his skin, and this time he screams with pain. 

He hasn’t been whipped since the orphanage.  Beaten for stealing an egg for a sick friend.   The cane slashing across his bared thighs had stung like this.  He tries to brace himself, to be stronger than the pain.  Fails, as a third blow comes fast and then a fourth, ripping another choking cry from his lungs.

“Who sent you?”

“No-one, no-one sent me, what are you _doing_ , stop, please, no, _help_!”

He can’t turn his head enough to see the Director, but the voice is very close by and speaks with a breathless energy.  Sometimes, when his words coincide with a stroke of the lash, they are no more than sharp hisses of fury.  It’s frighteningly clear that Krennic is administering this punishment in person.

In between wielding the lash he asks the same questions, over and over.  Cassian whimpers, denies everything, begs him to stop.  The only thing he has to offer is that frail story and he clings to it, choking the words out.  But there is a detectable pleasure in the snarling voice as Krennic rejects his pleas, and in the care with which the strokes are laid on.  He begins to be afraid. 

Begins to hear his own childish voice echoed at the back of his cries.  “Please don’t, _please_!  Please stop!”

When finally the beating ceases he is unable to get back to his knees.  Every muscle is shaking, his body twitches helplessly, exhaling in jerks of pain, and he slumps against the data stack.

A hand laces into his hair and pulls his head back roughly.  From the corner of his eye he can see the Director crouching down to speak up close, into his ear.

“You don’t seem to understand,” Krennic says.  His voice is smiling.  “This is not about the information.  We will always get that from you, one way or another.  This is about you understanding your place in the universe.”

Cassian is choking on each breath.  He tries to answer and his own voice is a hoarse moan.  “I don’t understand…”

“No, you really _don’t_ , do you?”  The hand shifts, almost stroking him for a second before it wrenches his head back again.  “I had thought that if we had a little chat, like this, man to man, _friendly_ –“ he pulls Cassian’s hair viciously hard – “you’d see the wisdom of telling me what I need to know…  But since you persist in being _so stupid_ I can see I have no choice but to call back our friends from Security, and have you arrested.”

He stands suddenly, throwing Cassian’s head sharply back against the shelves.  His voice is contemptuous.  “You’ve betrayed my faith in you.  You’ve thrown away everything I could have done for you.  You pathetic Festi scum.  You’re a thief and a liar.  You’ll rot in gaol.  **_Fool_**.”

A kick slams into Cassian’s right hip, and another lands in his midriff as he tries to huddle away. 

He ought to give Saw up, he thinks drunkenly, panting for breath.  He _has_ been a fool, the Director is entirely right about that.  He ought to give the old man up without compunction, without a second’s doubt.  But to do so would lead them to Jyn.  This is the last chance he’ll ever have to hold on and hold out, to refuse them what they’ve always demanded, the passive obedience of the compliant child.

It wasn’t enough to protect him when he was nine.  Twenty cuts of the cane for thieving, another twenty for refusing to say who he stole for.  He can still see Javier, swaying, pale and feverish, standing with the rest of the class as they lined up to watch him take his punishment.  He’d counted on being known for a good boy to put him above suspicion, and it had not been enough.

He’d cried before the end of the beating, but he hadn’t given them the name.

He won’t do so now, he decides, giddy and sick with pain, feeling a hot trickle slide down his back from one of the whip cuts.  He can still do that much; for Jyn, for long-dead Javier, for himself.

He’d thought the Director was gone.  Then the lash falls across his body again, and this time there are no more questions.  The blows come fast and unrelenting.  He loses count of the number of times the whip has struck, is it twenty, forty, more?  He can no longer think of the words to beg for mercy.  Can barely snatch in enough breath after each wordless gasp of pain before another blow smashes the air from his lungs yet again.  He realises he is going to faint, and almost has time to be grateful for it as the airless darkness descends. 


	27. Chapter 27

It is startling how much easier it is to walk openly and fearlessly, no matter who you are or how illegitimate your business, when your escort is a seven-foot K-X model Enforcer droid.  They descend from the rooftops soon after leaving Old Town and hurry through the city without once having to take to the back alleys.  Ordinary citizens go quickly past with their heads down, and K-2 nods at patrolling police and Imperial ‘troopers, an equal acknowledging equals, and is uncontested.  No-one has so much as spoken to them, the entire way.

Mereva Prospect.  They pass the spot where Jyn first climbed down to street level.  The bulk of the north wing of the Archives is clearly visible ahead.  After a couple more streets  Jyn motions to the others in a tiny hand signal, and with a quick glance to check they are unobserved the three of them change direction and duck into a side lane.  It turns to an alley, swings round and goes past the back of the building.  There are trash bins, and scavenger beetles that scuttle away from their feet.  Jyn shoves away the memory of a little square, palm trees in the moonlight, a five storey house with flaking paintwork and a young man leaning on a window looking down…

The droid casually hoists first Bodhi and then herself up to a first floor rooftop.  “I’ll wait for you here, Bodhi,” he says.  “Be very careful.”

The Captain doesn’t reply.  He’s busy unzipping a pocket on the sleeve of his coat and removing something she identifies after a moment as a line-launcher fitting for a multi-configuration weapon.  As she watches, he screws it into the barrel of his blaster, loads it with a clip from his ammo belt; looks up at the wall opposite them, the line of bright windows on the second storey.

She points.  “There; you can still see my wire.”

Now that she’s spotted it she can see clearly how the window with the broken catch hangs fractionally agley to the rest.  Someone has pulled it down but been unable to close it completely.  The profile of the frame against the light is marginally different, and the zip-wire swings beneath it, a gleaming silver line shifting in the night breeze.

There’s a hiss as Bodhi fires, and a faint clunk as the line-bolt connects with the wall.  She has no idea how, but it sticks, and the trailing end of the rope is clasped in his left hand.  He tightens it and hauls on it hard; it doesn’t budge.  “Okay,” he says, cool and business-like.  “We’re good.  You want to go first, or shall I?”

Jyn doesn’t hesitate.  “I’ll go.”  There’s another clunk as he secures the near end to the parapet beside them.  She pulls on her half-gloves. 

She grabs on and swings out above the alley, climbing hand over hand towards the light above; knees hooked round the rope, hands gripping tight.

“Be very careful,” repeats a voice from below.

“Don’t distract her!” A sharp hiss from the roof.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” K-2 grumbles in the darkness.  “Jyn Erso is not experienced in this kind of operation.”

“You do realise I can hear you, right?” Jyn gasps.  There’s no reply; and she’s arrived at the wall of the north wing.  She lets go with one hand and feels up the stonework towards the window above. 

There’s smooth metal under her touch, and smoother glass.  She works her fingertips along the juncture between them, fumbling for enough leverage to get the window up just a fraction.  It feels springy, there’s a faint give, but not quite enough.  She edges a nail under the durasteel lip of the frame, prising at it.  Bodhi and K are silent, even the traffic on Mereva Prospect seems to have grown quiet.  The night air is cool.  The rope cuts into the backs of her knees and her left arm is beginning to ache before finally she gets a purchase on the window frame. 

It flips upward suddenly, open at last.  In a moment she has twisted round, grabbing the lower sill in both hands, and with a scrabble she hauls herself up and over the edge.  She’s in.  Behind her when she glances round Bodhi is already climbing.

The vast data store is silent and brilliantly lit, just as she remembers it.  She hurries to the doorway below the balcony and the force field, kneels, pulls the lock-picks out of her vest pocket.  And stops, staring.  Three feet away, lying at the foot of the wall, is a second, identical set. 

She knows she did not leave hers behind.  Here they are in her hand.  There they are on the floor. The dissonance is dreamlike, and it terrifies her beyond reason, because this can’t be real.

She gets up, takes two paces, bends and picks the second set up.  They’re the same make, and there’s a scratch across the case of the EM-pulse tool, a jagged line the shape of the letter nen; a spindly nen with a longer than usual fore-hook.  She’s seen that mark before, knows how it got there, and when; has used this very set, many times.

She turns as Bodhi appears at the window, holds up a hand for silence.  Her eyes search the deserted aisles and her breath is quickening, hot with panic. 

There’s something lying at the foot of one of the data towers.  A dark shape, something soft and flat; a discarded jacket, black fabric with a faint sheen.  Beyond as Jyn walks towards it there is something else, sticking out from the far side of the stack.  A man’s shoe.  Black leather, very new, polished to a shine.  Two more paces and she can see the foot, the trouser leg, the second foot with the shoe twisted almost off; then the figure of a man lying limply against the shelves, held up by his bound arms lashed to the selector claw above.  A white shirt, slashed to the collar and ripped half off him; and a thin, dark back flogged to bleeding, a dark head hanging down.  He isn’t moving.

She wants to scream.  She cannot.  Her feet carry her forward to his side, she falls to her knees, hands reaching out, cringing away, reaching for him again.  She can’t speak.  Guttural animal noises form in her throat and crawl into the roof of her mouth; her breath chokes around her tongue but will not form words.

When she raises his head she sees that he’s breathing.  She begins to whimper with relief and grief.  He’s breathing, he’s breathing… 

Everything around her has gone silent, the air is gelid with horror.

She touches Cassian’s face, his bloodless cheeks; tries to lift him up, helplessly looking for a place on his body where she won’t be pressing on raw bruises and torn skin.  His lips are horribly pale, he’s cold to the touch and he smells of sweat and blood.  The air in her mouth forms a word at last, the word no, over and over, no, no no no…

 _The ropes, get the ropes, cut him down_ … 

Jyn pulls the small knife from her belt and flicks it open.  Reaches up to where his wrists have been lashed together with a broad ribbon of fabric.  Steel-blue, the lustre of silk.  She recognises the material.  She hacks through it and catches Cassian as he slumps down; cradles his head on her shoulder, fumbles the severed necktie off his hands.  He moans faintly into her neck.

“Shh, shh, I’m here, we’re going to get you out, shh, I’m here, oh my love, shh, shh…”

Behind her, Bodhi’s voice, approaching, says “What the hells are you –“ and then “ _Krif!...”_

Jyn gropes onehanded in her vest pocket, pulls out one of the tool sets.  Words come out of nowhere now, chillingly calm, as she thrusts the pick-locks up at him without looking round.  “Get the data.  I burned the circuit locks last time.  The manual is a five-cylinder deadlock with a mortise, you’ll need both picks to do it.  The force field looks like a standard model.  Try the usual codes on it, chances are one of them will work.  You need stack five, shelf seven, the file name is Stardust.”

She spares him the briefest glance and sees his eyes are darting from her to Cassian and back.  He nods, impassive, and takes the set of tools.  She turns away without hesitation. 

“Cassian?  Cassian...”  Her hands, her voice, are shaking.  She wants to wail and rock him in her arms, and weep; she wants to kill whoever did this to him. 

His breathing is shallow but steady.  She pushes back sweaty hair from his forehead, feels the clammy skin gently.    

Any idea of accepting her fate with resignation has vanished as if it was never thought.  It’s no longer possible for this to be a suicide mission, because somehow, _somehow_ , she will get him out.   The Force alone knows how.  But she cannot allow this to happen.  They have to get him out of here.

“Cassian, Cassian, look at me...” 

His eyelids quiver, long lashes beginning to move and then sinking back.  His lips part and form a half-made word, and he moans in the back of his throat.  His eyes open blankly and flutter shut once more. 

“Cassian!  Cassian, come back to me, wake up!”

“Jyn…”  Her name is little more than an exhalation of breath, but this time when he opens his eyes they focus.  With a groan he tries to raise his head.  “Jyn – you – you came back for me…”

It isn’t clear whether it’s a question or a bewildered certainty.  Jyn says “Yes” helplessly.  “I’m going to get you out of here.”

“You should leave –“

“Not without you!”

“You should go, he’ll come back and –“

“No, I’m not –“

“Jyn, please, you should go –“

It’s like orders and counter-orders in the chaos of an assault.  Their two whispering voices are loud in the ghostly silence.  Jyn shakes her head wildly.  “I’m not leaving you here!  You need to get up…”

Cassian clutches on to her vest and buries his face in her neck.  “Jyn, Jyn…”  He wraps his arms round her and clings for a moment, and she wants to howl with grief.  Then he straightens, letting go and hauling himself upright with a grunt.  He says quite rationally “He’s a fucking madman, you know.”  She can smell a trace of liquor on his breath for a second.  His right hand comes up and he touches her cheek wonderingly.  “Jyn…  you need to get out….” 

“Not happening,” she tells him.

“He’s gone to fetch the guards back, to arrest me.”

“Who is this ‘he’?  Who did this to you?”

He’s still touching her face.  “Krennic.  You were – you were right about him.”

“I am not going to leave you here,” Jyn repeats.  She catches his hand in both of hers.  He’s so cold, and so confused.  He must be in shock.  She chafes the thin fingers.  Cassian’s hands have always been warm, it’s unnatural, horrible, to feel him reduced to this icy cold.  _Krennic, Krennic did this_ … 

He’s looking into her eyes, and she cringes inwardly at the helpless innocence there. _Oh my dear, did you get drunk and decide to find me? – to follow me, come for me?  Oh Cassian, why?…_ “We need to move!  Can you get up?”

Cassian blinks and bites his lip; nods weakly.  “I think so, yes…”

“Lean on my shoulder – that’s it – great – use the shelf for leverage –“

Jyn puts an arm round his waist and feels him wince at the touch before his jaw tightens and he endures.  By the time they are both standing her shirt sleeve pressed against him is wet with blood.  

She’s seen violence too often, and dealt-out her share of it, too, but the idea of roping a helpless man down like a bantha and whipping him till he bleeds makes her seethe with anger.  Nothing can be gained by such brutality, except to break and oppress and destroy; and to bring satisfaction to the cruel of heart.

“Come on, that’s it, you can do it…”  He’s leaning on her, looking into her face with an incredulous hope that makes her shut her face against crying.  But as they take their first stumbling steps, his eyes go past her and she sees his expression change. 

“Ah, no,” he says.  He shakes his head in denial and a plea that she knows will be unanswered.  “No, please, no…”

Jyn turns her head, awkward under the dear weight of his arm.  Coming down the aisle between the data towers are two armed security men in masked helmets; and behind them, smiling, comes Krennic.

“Well, well,” says the Director.  “Miss Hallik.  You came back for your painter.  What a _touching_ sight.”

He motions to the two guards to stop, advances past them.  He’s wearing a blaster at his hip now, but he doesn’t have the stance of a man who expects to use it.  He’s a man who gloats, Jyn thinks; gloats and counts on his staff to do the messy work.  She can use that, maybe. 

She holds her head high, sticks out her bottom lip pugnaciously. 

Cassian grips her arm.  “That’s right, Director.  She just came for me.  She didn’t do anything, she’s just a – a stupid girl who thinks she’s in love.  Let her go and I’ll tell you who sent me.”

“Ahh!  Yes, this really is touching.  Such bravado - and such very bad lying…” 

“You think you’ve won, don’t you?” Jyn says, pitching her voice high and scared, and loud enough to carry. 

“Oh, I’m quite sure I have.”

She holds the chilly eyes with her own.  If she can just provoke him enough to take a few more steps, he’ll block one trooper’s line of sight, and she might be able to take him before the other one gets her.  Bodhi has had time by now to get the data file, she can count on him to get out and get away with K.  It’s up to her to save Cassian, and herself, if she can.

“You’re wrong.  You’ve lost,” she tells Krennic.  “This whole thing was just a diversion, one my colleagues in the Alliance have made very good use of.  The main central garrison of Coronet City is currently under attack from combined Rebel and Partisan forces.”

One of the security guards gives the other a nervous glance.  Good; one of them at least can be distracted.  Get Krennic to block the other one and she has a chance.  They both have their weapons up still.  She moves to the left, putting herself in front of Cassian.

“Oh, you are ridiculous,” Krennic sneers.  His eyes are narrowing.  She’s getting him cross.  But she needs more. 

She needles again. “You’ll never win.”

“Now where have I heard that before?”

“Jyn, don’t do this,” Cassian whispers behind her.  “Please, don’t make him any angrier than he already is.”

He means well, but it breaks the tension, and Krennic laughs.  “Ahh, it’s _so_ unfortunate I don’t have the time to chat.  But I must be getting back to my real guests.”  He turns towards the guards.  “Arrest them both.   Do whatever you like to the man, leave the girl for my personal attention.”

It isn’t as much as she’d wanted but still, it’s just enough movement, just enough distracted attention; as the two men look back towards her Jyn has already drawn her own blaster.  Both weapons swing back her way, and there’s no time to place her shots, and she hasn’t managed to get the placement she’d wanted; but Krennic is still the nearest, so she fires at him.  She knows one of the others will get her.  Hopes that perhaps she can shield Cassian, at least for a moment; give him a chance, however tiny, to run. 

Two other shots ring out, close together and on top of hers. 

Cassian yelps behind her, but it sounds more like horror than pain; and in front, both the guards drop.  One shot clean through the torso, the other with the side of his helmet blown away, blood and matter spattering as he hits the floor. 

There’s blood on Krennic’s white tunic, a neat round rose of it blossoming on his shoulder.  Not her best marksmanship.  He falls at her feet, doubled-up and groaning, looks up at her in disbelief.  She draws a bead on his forehead.  Her next shot has no chance of missing its target.  “Goodbye, Uncle Orson.”

“ _Jyn, no_ …” breathes Cassian at her back.  His voice is shaking with horror.

“Let me finish it,” says Bodhi Rook calmly from where he’s standing in the aisle behind the fallen men, gun in hand and face like ice.  A large black data file hangs from a clip on his belt.      

“No,” Jyn says.  “I need to.”

“No you don’t.”

“He killed my mother, made a slave of my father.  Tortured Cassian.  I want to do this.”

“It won’t make any of those things any different.”

Krennic is staring at her.  He hasn’t even got the sense to draw his own weapon.

“I have killed people before, you know,” she says angrily.  She should have fired already; why is she hesitating?  She’s dreamed of doing this for years. 

Cassian sounded so appalled.  It seems unbelievable, but he must still have some shred of faith in her.  She cannot bear that she’s going to let him down once again.

“It’s different when you know them,” Bodhi tells her.  “Believe me.  I know.”

“He doesn’t know _me_!” Jyn spits out, hating him for saying that.  She knows it’s true.

Krennic is pulling himself up slowly.  There’s quite a lot of blood on his shoulder now.  His mouth is working in fear and pain but he snarls at her through it.  She stares at him down the barrel of her blaster.

“I’m Jyn Erso,” she says.  “Daughter of Galen and Lyra.”  He doesn’t know her, doesn’t remember a scrap of the pain he’s caused, he’s a monster, she needs to be the one to do this…

She cocks the trigger, and freezes, because there’s a change in his eyes.  Recognition; and no hate with it but only a sick confusion.  She knows what he’s seeing. 

She fights her own knotted hands, hearing Cassian gasp her name again behind her.  Feels sick and torn, her muscles and her heart jammed on the duty she cannot do.  

Krennic’s eyes, wide open, seeing Jyn Erso.  Seeing, perhaps, her parents’ roof garden, and sunny days on Coruscant; seeing a little girl with two braids, who used to hold his hand. 

“I’m sorry.  We don’t have time for this.” Bodhi stands by the injured man and fires once, into the back of his neck. 

Krennic’s horrified eyes go dead as he drops to the floor.  And it does feel different.  Because he knew her.

“There, it’s done,” Bodhi says.  “Done and witnessed.”  His face is strangely numb as he stands up again.  “Now, we need to go.”


	28. Chapter 28

Cassian has never climbed down a rope in his life before, much less rappelled down one in the dark, into the arms of an Enforcer droid.  He already feels lightheaded and sick with shock, and his arms are agony by the time he reaches the ground.  The last few hours have turned the world inside out and ripped apart everything he thought he knew; and it’s still the same night that began with him and Jyn in evening dress, holding hands in a tuk-tuk.  Force alone knows if he’ll live to see the dawn.

The droid catches him and lowers him the last yard to the road, and steadies him as he staggers and tries to keep his footing.  “Who are _you_ , then?” it says tartly.

He knows he ought to be afraid of it.  But neither Jyn nor the quiet young man Bodhi paid it any mind when they looked out of the window, when they urged him to climb, promised him he’d be safe.  The whole situation has the dark hyper-reality of a dream.  He wonders if he ought to shake hands with the droid. 

Bodhi is next to the bottom of the rope.  Unlike Cassian, he doesn’t need any help; he simply reaches the dangling end and drops, landing neat and light as an insect.  “I see you’ve met K-2,” he says coolly.  “He’s a reprogrammed Imperial droid.  K, this is Cassian Andor.  Jyn’s friend, the painter.”

This man just committed murder in front of him, shot Director Krennic in cold blood, yet he seems unconcerned by it.  The handsome face is affectless.  Bodhi walks to the mouth of the alley without a backward glance, stands looking out into the deserted boulevard beyond.  The blaster is back in his hand. 

Whatever he really is, Cassian thinks dazedly, he is no tailor’s apprentice, this man.

There’s a soft thump as Jyn lands.  He turns, and she’s untying something from around her waist and holding it out.  “I brought your jacket.  You’re bleeding, you need to cover up your back.”

His good shirt is ruined; it’s galling to spoil the new suit as well.  Who cares what he looks like in the streets at midnight?  All he wants is to get back to his apartment and sleep.  If only this nightmare could be gone by morning.  His head reels more each time he moves.

“And you’re shivering,” Jyn adds.  “You’re in shock, I’ve seen it before.  We need to keep moving, there’ll be alarms going off any minute.  Please, Cassian…”

Without looking round, Bodhi says “I fried the alarm system.  But we do need to move just the same.”

“I don’t want to go with you.  I want to go home.”

“Not safe,” the quiet murderer says.  “Not arguing about this.  Come on.”

He leads the three of them quickly over the wide boulevard and into another side street.  Cassian follows, drawn in Jyn’s wake.  His head is a whirling blank and he can’t think of anywhere else to go.  He does pull the jacket on after a few minutes.  Its weight seems to settle on a hundred sore places, making every welt and tear flame up viciously, but he hasn’t the energy to take it off again.  He walks on, slowly trailing to the rear of the little group, his head spinning, body on fire around him.  Occasionally Jyn turns, glances back at him.  He thinks her face looks anxious but it might be just the unevenness of the street light. 

Bodhi and K-2SO are soon well ahead and they move fast, striding man, loping droid, leading them deep into the winding alleys of Old Town.  When at length they stop, and he catches them up, it’s in a tiny square where five lanes meet, and Jyn is fretting impatiently as they debate going to Belén Street or finding something called Knife-edge.  She looks round, and her eyes seem to ease as he limps panting to a stop beside her.

“Forget Saw,” she tells Bodhi sharply.  “He won’t help us anyway.  Cassian ought to be in a med-bay.  You need to get us off-planet.”  

“No.”

“Yes!  What do you mean, no?  Don’t you have a ship?”

“We came in undercover, on a regular transport from Kuat.”  Bodhi touches the comm pad attached to his jacket.  “I’ve called for an extraction but it’ll be several hours at least before they can get here.  I agree with you about Saw, though.  Too risky.  K is going to check if our other local contact can help.”

“Oh I am, am I?” says the droid irritably.  “I still think –“

“Yes, you kriffing well are, stop arguing.  If the Guardians can’t get here soon we need a place to lie low.”

“And where are you going to go, while I’m off looking for someone who probably doesn’t want to be found?  You can’t just hide behind a garbage bin all night.  Not with him, bleeding everywhere like a stuck Drall.  The scavenger beetles will eat him alive.” K-2 seems to find the prospect intriguing. 

“You’re grotesque,” says Jyn.

“That is irrelevant, and a pointless value judgement.   Moreover it doesn’t alter the fact I’m right.  You’re trying to blend in, Bodhi, you can’t just hang around in the street with a man covered in blood.  We should all go to look for Knife-edge together.  There’s a 68% probability that splitting up will worsen our odds.”

“We’ve been through this already, K –“

“You have nowhere else to go –“

Cassian is looking around him blearily.  He’s aware that Jyn is watching him from the corner of her eye as the other two bicker.  The space they’re standing in is small, not much more than a gap with a solitary bench beside a closed-up snack kiosk.  The houses are lower and narrower than those in his street, and there are several empty lots; broken windows and piles of rubble are half-hidden by hoardings, and on all sides the walls are filled with graffiti and decorated with _Wanted_ posters.  He spots a familiar face, a poster he’s seen a lot of lately, of a Twi’lek female with flying goggles pushed up on her forehead.  She has a hypnotic smile.  He wonders who she is, what she’s done.  There’s something encouraging about her expression; it’s almost like seeing a friend.

Above her, the only working street light hangs on an old-style iron hook on the corner of two alleys.

The light seems to sway, though the air is barely moving in the confined space.  Perhaps it’s him that is swaying.  He’s exhausted, to the point where it’s hard to imagine staying upright for much longer; and despite the coat he wraps round himself, the night is weirdly cold.

But he’s sure he’s looked at that light before, and that poster below it; swaying on the swaying wall, on the swaying hook.  Coming and going, just so, in his eyes, the last time he came down this street past the broken hoardings, roaring drunk and laughing, arm in arm with –

“Tivik.”

“What?” says Jyn. 

She puts a hand on his arm and he leans into the support, looking down at her face.  He appeals to her.  “You know.  You’ve met him.  Tivik.”

“Your friend, yes.”  She looks confused.  He isn’t explaining himself very well.

“He lives near here.  We could go to his place.  You need to lie low, isn’t that what you said?  And I need to lie down.”  The effort of speaking leaves him even more dizzy, and his legs are starting to shake.  “Tivik,” he repeats as the other two both turn to stare.  He hopes he sounds confident enough to convince them.

Bodhi draws Jyn away and leaves him standing.  He’s clinging to nothing, now, gravity pulling him left and right and round in a slow circle.  They mutter, and it’s the droid who sticks out a hand this time and catches his shoulder.  Its grip is tight, and it hurts, but at least it’s stable enough to stop him swinging by his feet anymore.

“It’s our best option,” says Jyn decisively after a few minutes, and without waiting for an answer she heads back to his side, touches his hand for a moment.  “Cassian?  Can you lead the way?”

It registers that she’s taken his part. He has to shake himself.  They are going to Tiv’s place.   _Right.  Right.  Tiv’s place._ Tiv’s street is _– everything’s spinning –_ Tiv’s street is – “This way.”

Every bit of him aches, his back and shoulders are on fire, the fabric chafing, tiny woollen teeth rasping at each torn place.  His head feels swollen.  It’s getting harder to keep his eyes focussed, and the noise of footsteps is disconcertingly loud in the dark.  Behind him as he wavers down the lane, Jyn and Bodhi are having another exchange of murmured words.  Their voices are tense.  He catches _concussion_ and _delayed shock_ and _trust him?_ – and _we can’t afford_ – and then Jyn silences the debate with a fierce “I don’t fucking care!”

He doesn’t understand her.  She lied to him, she left him, she came back for him; she put herself between him and a blaster; now she’s angry for him.  He has no idea who she is anymore.  No idea who he loves, if she ever even existed.  But she came back for him. 

People have not come back for Cassian, as a rule, up till now.  Not when things went really bad.

He turns at the corner, his unsteady gait taking him in a wide loop.  “This way.”  There’s the sandal-makers’ shop with the illegal rum still in back, and the florist, and the ruin where the Drabatan squatters used to live.  And, blessed life, there’s a light in Tivik’s window at the end of the street.

His feet are starting to drag.  Jyn appears beside him.  She touches his elbow hesitantly.  “Cassian?  Are you okay?”

“I don’t – feel too good…”

“How much further?”

“Just –“ he gestures, and the swing of his arm is uncomfortably large, but – “it’s just there.”

She catches the flailing arm and tucks herself under it with a quick pull that shifts him into leaning on her.  Just as he did when she raised him up, back in the data vault, he thinks.  She came back for him.  She can’t have wanted to leave him if she came back.

She wanted to kill Krennic.  But she didn’t fire the shot; she froze when she had the chance. 

He stares down at her, drunkenly, though the liquor in his bloodstream has all burned out long ago.  There’s a crease in her brow and her bottom lip sticks out unhappily.

“Can you manage?” she’s asking.  “Cassian?”  Real worry in her voice.  “Is it the house with the light?”

She wanted to kill Krennic but she didn’t do it.  The stranger, Bodhi, he did it, quick as an ice-snake and as dispassionate.

Jyn is supporting half his weight now.  He’s so near giving up and letting himself fall down in the street.  But she came back for him, and if there is still hope then he can’t let her down.

He gasps “Yes, that’s the one,” and sees a faint echo of a smile on her lips.  She pulls him close.  Her arm across his back is like a hot iron, pressing into the agony there, but he locks his jaw against all further sound.  Tries to return her smile.  She came back for him; no matter the rest of the story between them, she came back.

His head is swimming but he staggers the rest of the way with her help, and thrashes one fist on the door of Tivik’s run-down cottage.

There’s a long, unnerving silence before a window bangs open above them and a silhouette leans out.  “Krif off!”

“Tiv…”  Cassian lurches back a step, into the dim wash of light from the bedroom window.  “Help…”

The dark head goes still, and there’s another silence before Tivik hisses “ _Cass?_   **_Jyn_** _?_   What the _kriffing **hells**_?”

“Please, we need your help…”

“What the kriffing - okay, krif, okay, I - I’m coming down...“

When the front door opens he is just about able to make his way through into the hall with Jyn’s help.  His feet no longer want to coordinate with his legs, nor his legs with the rest of him.  He has to keep blinking or he sees two Tiviks, two hallways, two tiled floors rising and falling in front of him.

“Who’s _this_ kriffer?  And - _what the **krif**_? – oh no, no way is that thing coming in here!”

“I am K-2SO.  I am a reprogrammed Imperial droid.”

“No kriffing way is one of those tin pigs coming in my house!”

“It’s harmless,” Cassian says, gesturing at K-2.  “Rude but harmless.  I think.”  A flutter of hilarity rises in him at the droid’s goggling eyes.  His head spins even more.

“What the kriffing hell happened to you?  Cass, man, you look like shit.”

“I got – beaten up a bit – I don’t –“ It’s getting harder to find words and hang them together. 

Jyn cuts in on top of his waverings. “He’s concussed and in shock, he’s been knocked around pretty badly.  He needs a medic but we don’t have one.  We need to lie low till morning.  Can you help us?”

“Kriffing hells,” says Tivik yet again.  “Aww, kriffing hells…”

The familiar voice and the familiar curse words are being sucked down into the doubled-up floor.  Cassian’s knees buckle under him and he slides down to join them; and the tiles wrap round him, cool and silent and dark as sleep.


	29. Chapter 29

Jyn sits on a mattress on the floor of a darkened room, with Cassian sprawled on his front beside her.  His head, and one limp hand, rest in her lap.  She keeps one hand in his hair, since earlier her touch seemed to calm him.

With Tivik’s help she’s given him a painkiller shot, and cleaned and bathed the cuts and welts on his back, and smeared them with the small tube of bacta from her first-aid kit.  The only thing that can help his concussed brain is rest.  She’s grateful that he seems to have fallen asleep so quickly.  His breathing is slow now and steady, and less shallow than it was, and he lies still, completely relaxed.

Before the lights were dimmed she had been unable to stop looking at the bruises coming through on his face and body, the weals and blisters on his back.  Even now in the near-dark they are darker stains on his skin.  His head on her thighs, the warmth of his breath, are heavy and steady and precious.  She brought him to this.  His faith broken, his trust betrayed, his entire life in ruins.  Yet somehow it seems he still believes that she will stay, she’ll do right by him, this time.

She wants to.  Whether that will mean anything when it comes to it, when the fight comes back to them, she cannot tell.  But she wants to stay with him if she can.  There’s a home in Cassian’s faith in her, that she never had in Belén Street.

If she had to make that choice again, Cassian or the data file, she’s not sure she could do anything differently.  Which means that if Bodhi had not been there, the mission would have failed.   

But if she had not been there, she’s pretty certain that he would have left Cassian behind to die, without a glance.

She cannot bear to look too closely at all the ifs, and the deaths beyond them.

The three of them are in what Tivik, with a kind of good-humoured assertiveness, had called “the old family cache”; a smugglers’ hole in the kitchen cellar.  There wasn’t enough room for K-2, and Bodhi has sent him, still grumbling, in search of this cryptic contact codenamed Knife-edge. 

She can’t remember when she stopped thinking of the droid as an _it_.  But there’s still a good chance they’ll all be dead within a day (and doubtless K could give her precise odds if he were here).  It’s good to feel loyalty, however odd and unexpected, for those she fights and risks death beside.  She has precious little faith left in anything else.  She’s heard Tiv’s account of the scene at the Momus, she has Two-Tubes’ pick-locks in her pocket for confirmation, and the last fragments of her affection for Saw are dust now.  He refused her the chance to make a second attempt on the Archives, though she begged him to let her go; but he met Cassian and sent him, naïf, guileless Cassian, instead.  He had no reason to bear grudges against the man he’d forced her to betray, yet he’d sent him to his death. 

It hurts to hate Saw, even now.  But this is one door too many he’s passed through, on his journey into paranoia and self-absorption.  He’s always argued that one must do whatever is necessary for the cause.  This was not necessary.  This was personal; trying to eliminate the one thing she cared about more than his teachings, more than his authority, more than him.

Cassian stirs and sighs in her lap, and she realises her hand has fallen still.  Resumes stroking, gently.  His hair feels soft to the touch. 

Across the tiny space, a faint glow rises from the screen of Bodhi’s comm-pad.  He’s silent, watching the screen and occasionally tapping in a message, then waiting, infinitely patient, for a reply.  The data file, she knows, is still hanging from his belt.  The light illuminates his face, and there’s just enough overspill to pick out a few other shapes in the darkness. A shuttered window, small and high up, and the doorway, the narrow ladder, by which they came in.  Her feet in their black boots sticking out in front of her, and the paler shapes of her outstretched hand, and Cassian’s face and body.  When she leans closer to him she can make out the shadows of his eyes and lips, the highlights on his cheekbones and the strong crooked line of his nose.  Not for the first time she wonders when and where it was broken.  Krennic was not the first person to see Cassian’s goodness and want to hurt him for it.  Saw would not be the last.

She whispers his name.  He doesn’t move.  Deep asleep, she hopes.  Let him rest as long as possible.  The bacta is doing its work, by morning he’ll be more mobile and most of the cuts should be skinned-over.  Tiv has promised to lend him a shirt.  With luck they’ll make it to Bodhi’s rendezvous and get out.  What kind of life Cassian will find in the Alliance she cannot imagine.  But at last he’ll be safe there.

As safe as any of them.  These are dark days for all.

She leans down to place a tiny kiss on the sleep-blank face.  There is so little time, and so little hope, and she has wasted so much of his love, that was so generously given.

Bodhi looks across from the comm unit in his hand and tilts it so that more light falls into the room.  He says her name. 

She indicates Cassian with a nod.  “Hush, speak low, don’t wake him…”

“I wondered if this was what had happened,” he says in a whisper.  “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

She’d like to be able to deny it but the lie knots in her throat.  “What if I am?”

“It doesn’t help matters.”

“I’m aware of that.”

There’s a pause; then “Would you really have thrown the mission for him?”

Jyn already knows the answer to that.  She swallows and looks down, hoping she can be diplomatic at least; strokes her thumb gently through the hair above Cassian’s bruised temple.  “I – I think I might have, yes.  Be glad we didn’t have to find out.  I couldn’t leave him.”  It’s hard not to feel bitter, at being put to the line over this, though it wasn’t an unreasonable question.  “I _couldn’t_ ,” she repeats.  “Don’t ever ask me to.  I never should have left him in the first place.”

 She glares up at the Captain, but he’s not angry.  The blue light makes his face look grey and tired.  “I envy you,” he says wearily.  “I don’t think I’ve felt that much for anyone in years.  I’ve spent so long telling myself I can’t afford to care that I’m not sure I know how to anymore.”

Jyn blinks.  “You do care.  Haven’t you given your whole life to this fight because of it?”

A faint, rueful smile.  “But that’s just it.  I have given my whole life.  Including giving up things that the cause can’t allow time for.  Friendship, unless you count K.  Love.  A home.  I mean, my whole family just died, yesterday, and yet look at me.  I’ve pulled myself together already.  Perfectly functional.  It’s disgusting, when you look at it rationally, to be so detached.  You may be in the wrong, but I envy you your freedom just the same.  You’re still able to turn away and say _no, I love this man more than that_.”

“Krif-all use it’s been,” she whispers.  “Force knows I do love him.  Hasn’t helped any.  I’ve wrecked his life.  It would have been better for Cassian never to have met me.”

“Better for you, too.”  It isn’t a question.  Jyn shakes her head.

“No.  No, he’s opened my eyes to – to so much.  I can’t regret that.”  She strokes Cassian’s hair, willing him well.  “Do you remember asking me why I fight?  I couldn’t give you much of an answer then.”  She thinks, speaks, very slowly, searching for the eloquence she needs and has never had.  Hard, wordless thoughts, over-riding her usual reluctance to talk much or deeply.  She has to tell someone this, before the knowledge dies with her.  “I’ve been in this fight since I was eight years old.  For the cause, for my family, for revenge.  Because no-one else should have to go through what was done to us.  But I never knew what a life would be like, that wasn’t destroyed like mine had been.  Cassian showed me.  What it is to see beauty.  What it is to be innocent and ignorant, and hopeful, and able to fall in love.  People have the right to do these things.  He let me know what it feels like, what it tastes like, to know that.  I never knew what it was, to have my eyes open.  And now do I know.  The world is beautiful.   And that’s worth fighting for.  I owe him so much, for showing me that.  I can only hope he’ll be able to get through this somehow, and build a new life one day.  A life that can have beauty and hope and love in it.  He deserves it.”

“And you don’t?” Bodhi asks slowly.

She shakes her head.  “No.  Not anymore.  Knowing what he’s given me just makes it all the worse, the way I’ve treated him.  I’ve no right now to enjoy the things I’ve taken away from others.  Cassian deserves it.  Maybe you do, too, for the sacrifices you’ve made.  I don’t.  I had it and I threw it away.”  She looks up at his quiet face in the half-light.  “Captain, I want you to promise me; if it comes to it, get Cassian out of here before me.  Let him have a chance.  If we reach a point when there’s only one chance left, let him have it.”

“I never make promises,” Bodhi says after a moment.  “Sorry.  If saving him is your redemption then you’re going to have to do it yourself.”  He sounds almost bitter but his face is devoid of emotion.

Cassian stirs, his right hand flexing on her thigh.  He draws breath and murmurs her name fretfully.  Jyn turns away with relief from the Captain’s stony eyes.  “Shh, my dear, I’m here…”  She’s played false already with words like _my dear_ and _my love_ , yet they are still true, no matter how much she’s betrayed them. 

Across the room. Bodhi stares studiously at his comm again, and ignores her.

“Jyn…?”

“Yes?  I’m here.”

His eyes are still closed.  Voice just a murmur.  “What’s going to happen to us now?” 

_Us_.  Thank the Force, he’s expecting to go with them. 

She looks round the confined space; window, exit, Bodhi with the faint light on his face.  “I don’t know.  Bodhi has called his friends in the Alliance to get us out.”

“Where will we go?”

“To their HQ, I expect.  I think it’s in the Yavin system.  We’ll be safe there.”

He shifts his weight a little, moving carefully.  “Did you – did you get your data?  The file Saw told me about?”

_Damn Saw for a cruel old man_.  “Yes, we did.  Bodhi has it.  It’s safe.”

“Is it very important?”

She strokes his hair again, lays her other hand over his.  “Yes.  It’s the plans to their secret weapon.  A planet-killer.  We know how to destroy it now.”

Cassian settles again.  His voice sounds sleepy.  “Ah, that’s good, then.”

“Yes.  Try to get some rest, Cassian.” 

“I am resting.  I was asleep.  But then you were talking.”

_Krif_ …  “Did we wake you?  I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.” 

“It’s okay…”  He fidgets, sighs.  His breath is warm even through the cotton of her trouser leg.  “Jyn…  Jyn, I wanted to ask you something…”

“Yes?”

“When we get to the Alliance, are you going to leave again?  Are you going to go for a soldier?”

“Oh Cassian…  I wish it didn’t have to be like that.  But I will still be a soldier, yes.  And you’ll be an artist.  We’ll both work in our different ways for freedom.   I’ve been in this fight all my life, I couldn’t live with myself if I gave up now.  I want to be able to say I’ll never leave.  I want that so much!  I’m sorry.  But you deserve someone who can love you with the whole of their heart.”

“But you do,” he murmurs.  “I know.”

“Oh, my dear…”

“Will you sit for me again, one day?”

“Yes,” she says.  “Yes, Cassian, yes.  One day, when we’re free.”

“I’m glad.  Thank you.”

“Try to sleep.”

“You should sleep too.  You need the rest.”

He has a point.  She didn’t expect still to be alive, but it’s well after midnight now and she slept badly the previous night.  The body will betray itself without rest.  The darkness, and the warmth of his head in her lap, are soothing, and his hand is clasping hers like hope.  The stresses of the last twenty four hours have sunk into her body.  She aches all over, like the aftermath of a long fight. 

“Lie down,” says Cassian softly.  “Stay beside me.  Please?”

He raises his head again, and with a sigh Jyn accedes to the idea.  It’s too tempting.  There may never be another hour when she can simply rest in the dark and forget the things she’s done.  And he wants her to stay, which is a miracle she cannot cast aside. 

She shifts round, stretches out next to him, and Cassian lays his head on her breast like a child.  His breath is soft on her throat.  Incredulous, she turns her face towards him, cradling him, closing her eyes on the dark.  Sleeps with her lover in her arms again, one last night, one last chance, in peace.


	30. Chapter 30

Cassian is woken at dawn by a distant sound of thunder.  It’s heavy, and doesn’t end.  Muffled, growing more faint but not ceasing; then louder again, pounding, insistent.  It rises to a peak, loud as fireworks.  But it’s coming from the direction of the docks, and the timbre is all wrong.  It isn’t fireworks or rainstorms.  It’s more like gunfire. 

There’s dim light filtering into the cache from round the door and the area window; and from Bodhi’s comm unit.  The quiet man is standing alertly at the foot of the entry ladder, listening.

Jyn is still asleep.  Sound asleep, through the din like a war in the distance.  When he lifts his head from her bosom he sees she is breathing evenly and her eyes are delicately shut, lips slightly parted.  She looks terribly young suddenly.  Her breath is soft in her nostrils, the faintest infantine echo of a snore.  He remembers her waking in his arms before, starting up at the slightest disturbance, and wonders at it, that she sleeps now through gunfire.  But she does sleep, and he cannot begrudge her the rest she needs.

“How are you feeling?” Bodhi asks.

He sounds solicitous, even friendly.  Sounds like the mild-mannered tailor again.

“Who are you, really?” Cassian says.  His voice is a rusty whisper.

“Ah.”

The distant noise of fighting has suddenly lulled.  He can almost convince himself that it was thunder, after all, that it was only his dazed state of mind that tried to make it into danger.

“I’m Captain Bodhi Rook.  Alliance Intelligence.”

“You’re a spy?”

 Bodhi nods.  “I am.  I’m sorry you’ve been lied to so much.”

“You’re working with Saw?”

“I was.  Not anymore.” His head swings round as another rumble echoes in the distance.

“Is that a storm?” Cassian asks.  Hoping, hoping; but –

“No.  Fighting in the city, somewhere.  Riots, maybe.”         

“But Coronet City isn’t that kind of place.  It’s peaceful here, prosperous, stable.  Not like –“

“Not like?”

“Not like where I come from.” 

“Ah,” says the Alliance spy again.

It is all the darkest nightmares of his childhood, all returning today in one hideous blur of dissonance.  Everything he thought he’d left far, far behind has come up and struck him down, and he never saw it coming.

More gunfire, and a sudden deep _crump_ that pulses like a giant’s heartbeat in the ground and the air.  Bodhi goes still, poised and listening as Cassian flinches and Jyn beside him sits up.  As ever, she’s alert on the instant, and on her feet a moment later.  She says “Bomb?” and Bodhi answers “I’m not sure…”

“It sounded like an explosion to me.”  She drops onto one knee again, lays a hand on his shoulder.  “It’s quite a way off.  We should be safe down here.”

Another _whoomph_ of noise and concussion.  The door rattles.  “Heavy assault weapon,” says Bodhi.  “That’s got to be a riot.”

Cassian sits up, then stands, slowly.  He feels completely functional; he can hold his balance, his limbs coordinate, his head no longer rings hollow.  “They’d attack civilians with that kind of weaponry?  No, they can’t do that, surely…”

Bodhi shrugs.  “Reprisals, maybe.  Or suppressing a demonstration.  Something like that.”

Reprisals; like the blockade that killed his mother and sister.  Like the putting-down of the separatist sympathisers, that killed his father.  Cassian shivers.

“Are you okay?” Jyn asks. “How do you feel?”

It’s good to be distracted.  “Better, I think.  Not great but better.  Less pain.”

“Good,” she says.  She touches him again, her hand lingers on his bare skin.  “That’s good.” 

He wants to capture that gentle hand in his, and bring it to his breast, and not let go.  As if sensing his thoughts Jyn tenses and draws back.  “Bodhi?”

“Nothing from K.  But I have the rendezvous location now, and an ETA.”

Jyn looks up, at the faint outline of the window.  “It’s daylight.  The sooner we’re moving, the better.”

“Agreed.”  He pockets the comm and crouches down to their level.  “I know the team who’re coming for us, they’re some of our best.  They’re going to pick us up outside the city limits, a place called Tambira, on the Kavala canal.”

Jyn nods. “I know the place.  It’s a forest reserve.  There’s a few villages out that way but it’s a quiet area.  We used to bring armament shipments in by the canal, I’ve been out that way often.  Good spot for a quiet pick-up.”

“That’s what I’d hoped.  I’ll let K know.”

Armament shipments.  Cassian shivers again.   

“Tivik promised you a shirt, didn’t he?” Jyn says.  She strokes his arm again.  “I’ll see if he’s about yet.”  She rises, brushing past near enough that her body heat reaches him, and a note of perspiration in the air.  She goes up the ladder to the door at the top and opens it a crack.  Cassian moves to follow her.

Then Jyn stops dead.

In the weak light she signals frantically at them both.  Bodhi freezes, at once a predator poised and a hunted creature stilling itself into shadows.  Cassian stands swaying, one hand to the wall for support, looking up at her.  She leans in close to the thread of light at the door’s edge.

Behind the sound of his own breathing he can hear voices; Tiv’s, and others.  They rise and fall, Tiv emphatic but not angry, the others mostly with that mechanical burr of helmet speakers; one alone is clearer, with a haughty tone and the strong pitch of command.

Jyn’s hands slip to her holsters; she draws her blaster and a short weapon like a club.  When Cassian turns he sees the Captain also has a gun in hand.  Bodhi moves back to the foot of the ladder, feet silent on the stone-flagged floor.

Cassian presses his back against the wall.  It’s cold, but everything is cold suddenly.  He watches Jyn’s profile at the door.  The bright illumination catches along her features in a narrow line, gleaming in her clear eyes.  The face he’s studied so intently, new-revealed to him now by darkness and light.  Perhaps for the last time.  So beautiful, so alive, so unlike anyone he’s known.

The voices come nearer.  Jyn hefts the truncheon slowly and it too catches the light.  Against her silence his own breath is as loud as a street fight.

“Nuffing back here but the kitchen,” says Tivik, in the room above.  He yawns noisily and adds “Hope you aren’t expecting an ale at this hour, mate.”

“That’d be bribery,” says the faintly crackling voice of a masked Stormtrooper.  Unaggressive, almost good-tempered.

“As if…”  Tivik.  Another loud yawn.  “Would I do a thing like that?”

There’s a silence and then the ‘trooper says “Well, I can see there’s nothing here.  Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.  Glad I could be of service.”

The commanding voice barks again, further off, and the ‘trooper raises his voice to answer “Clear in here, sir,” and then, getting more distant “Just a filthy kitchen.  I’d hate to have to eat here.”

The officer snaps a response, and there are footsteps, and a door closes, some way off. 

In the background, the din of gunfire has stopped.

Jyn lowers her baton a little, but does not move otherwise.

There’s a long pause before Tiv’s voice above them says “Filthy indeed.  Kriffing cheek.”  A shadow blocks the light coming round the door and from close by he goes on, ramblingly as if speaking to himself. “Now, hmm, what about breakfast?  Not straightaway, maybe wait a while first.  Give the kriffing digestion time to settle after that rude awakening, eh?  And do I do toast, or eggs?  Or maybe a bit of both?”

Twenty minutes later they are sitting at a plain wooden table and he is dishing out scrambled eggs onto three plates.  A warm, savoury smell rises from the pan and from the stack of grilled bread between them.  There’s a jar of olive oil, a cruet of pepper and paprika, a tall jug of blue milk.  Mismatched cutlery, mugs of strong black kaf.  Cassian wonders if he’s still in shock, because this is almost as dreamlike as last night.

“Ahh,” says Bodhi.  “I almost feel I should say grace…”  He doesn’t; he simply starts shovelling eggs into his mouth. 

“Dunno when anyone last said kriffing grace at this table,” Tivik says jokingly.  “Seems abnormal somehow.”  He looks round at the three of them and his smile becomes forced, and wavers away.

Jyn is eating as well, more steadily and slowly than Bodhi, but like someone who knows she must stoke up for an unknown period of hunger ahead.  Cassian stares at his plate, knowing he ought to eat, too.  He feels queasy with leaping emotions; wonders if perhaps this jarring sense of a fracture between now and yesterday would ease, if he could get some solid food into his belly and manage to keep it down.

He compromises on kaf.  The bitter taste is gratifyingly familiar.

The borrowed shirt is too large, cut for Tiv’s bulky frame, but at least it means he’s warm again.  It’s blue, a soft cotton that’s fuzzed and faded with washing.  The fabric feels comfortingly gentle on his aching back.

Jyn is watching him from the corner of her eye.  She flicks her glance aside whenever he looks her way.

_Don’t turn away from me.  I want to understand, to know who you really are.  Please don’t turn from me again now._

The eggs will get cold.  He makes himself take a bite and chew.  And another.  It’s nutritious, after all. Protein.  He’s on the third mouthful when he realises that actually it tastes really good.

“So,” says Tiv into a pause that is noisy with eating “Cass, how’re you feeling this morning?  You kriffing scared me last night, mate.”

“I think I scared myself.”  Another mouthful.  Force alive, it’s savoury, it’s hot; it’s filling him up, like consuming energy direct from the grid.  It’s warm and nourishing, rich and spicy.  Force alive, he’s alive.

Though Force only knows what will happen to him now. 

There’s another interval while all three of them eat, and then Bodhi takes the pan, uninvited, and tips the last of the contents onto his plate; reaches for another two pieces of toast.  It’s blessedly mundane to watch him helping himself to seconds. 

“Aww, thanks…” Tiv is resolutely trying to be a good host.  “That’s a compliment to my cooking, eh?”

Bodhi grins round another mouthful, the hungry murderer.

Jyn smiles down at her own plate and scrapes it thoroughly.  It’s almost possible to believe things will work out.  Cassian reaches for the last slice of toast and tries to catch her eye with a smile.

“So tell me, Tivik,” Bodhi asks, his final mouthful swallowed. “What was all that shooting we heard, earlier?”

Tiv’s face falls.  “Krif, I hoped you hadn’t heard that.  There was trouble last night in Old Town.”

“What kind of trouble?” Bodhi presses. 

He fidgets.  “Word is, some high-up was wiped last night and they moved on the blokes that did it.  Word is, they got the drop on some militant cell or something being behind it.  You know they don’t hang about when they want to make a point.”

They all know who _they_ are.  Bodhi has stopped eating.  Both he and Cassian are watching Jyn now.  She says only “Where?”  Her face is a mask.

“Down near the harbour.  One of those alleys off Long Dock Street.”

Jyn’s lips move minutely, soundlessly.  Cassian sees the way her eyes change, the tiny glimmers of light, the nuances of colour, shifting as her pupils enlarge.  She shows almost no other expression, but he knows her face too well to doubt what he’s seeing.

Long Dock Street is the next road over from her home.

He sets down his fork.   He’s had enough food.  “Jyn…  Do you think we should go that way, see if they’re okay?”

She looks up at him from under her brows.  Sea-green, gold-flecked, fearful.  Nods once, quickly.  Compresses her lips and inhales, gathering herself up.  “It isn’t a large detour.  Yes, I – I’d like that.”

Bodhi nods shortly.

Tivik pulls a face, and says nothing.


	31. Chapter 31

It’s still early when they slip into the street.  Tivik holds Cassian back at the door, pulls him clumsily into a hug.  “You take care of yourself, you hear me, mate?  Kriffing hells, Cass, I don’t like this business!”

“Nor me.  Tiv, my friend, I don’t know how to thank you.  You saved my life, all our lives, last night.”

“Do me a favour, then, eh?  Don’t kriffing throw it away?  Any of it, eh?”

“And you – look after yourself.  That trooper you bribed – don’t push your luck doing stuff like that.  Please?”

Tivik scoffs.  “Old CL2783?  He’s a soft touch, always has been.  Don’t worry on his account, he’s fine.  Much safer company than that kriffing tin pig your new pal hangs out with, if you ask me.  Where’d he pick up a reprogrammed Imperial droid, then?”

“I have no idea…”  He embraces Tivik again.  It’s alarming to realise he has no idea if they’ll meet again.  “You take care of yourself, you hear me?”

“Yeah, yeah.  Course I will.”

“And keep an eye on my place?  I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

Tivik is no fool; he says quietly “When?” and for a moment Cassian can’t meet his eye.

“When or if.  I just – I don’t know what’s going to happen next.”

“Okay.  Okay, mate.”

Cassian glances into the lane. Bodhi and Jyn are waiting at the corner.  Bodhi is looking at his comm again.  Jyn is standing beneath the wanted posters; at first glance she looks almost composed, but he knows she’s staring into nothing.

“Tiv, I have to go.”

“Okay.  Kriffing hells.  Okay.  Hey – look after that shirt, eh?”

“I will.”

They hug once more and shake hands, and Tivik grins wryly and goes back inside.  The door shuts quietly behind him and Cassian is left alone in the street, in long morning light and cool shadows.  And the last piece of his old life is gone; very likely forever.

He hurries to join the others.  Looks back once from the corner.  But it’s safer to keep moving.

At first Jyn stays slightly ahead, like a tracker seeking out the spoor of bad news.  But as they get nearer to the harbour district she slows, hesitating at junctions, glancing round and dropping back gradually till she is beside him and it’s Bodhi in the lead.

Cassian looks at her frequently as they walk on into the maze of narrow street.  He doesn’t know if it’s from resolve, or merely that’s she’s unaware of his gaze, but she does not look at him.

He’s haunted by the things he overheard; wishes he’d heard more, wishes he hadn’t eavesdropped on something so private.  If someone were to ply him with more drink even than he downed last night, then ask him to tell his dearest and most private wish, he knows what he would confess; his dream is for Jyn to say that she’s sorry, that she would undo her lies if she could, for her to make peace with him and still want there to be a chance for the two of them.  Knowing she came back for him, helped him, stayed with him, has left him with a caged demon of hope.

But actually to hear it from her own lips, couched in words of such bitter regret, such grief and self-loathing, had not been a joy; rather it was hard beyond his imagining.  He hadn’t thought through what would be in her mind, what feelings she must now have, if she knew how much hurt she’d given him.  There’s more to overcome than he’d considered, if a reconciliation is even possible.  He needs not only to forgive her, but to convince her of it, and convince her too that she deserves it.

He has no idea how to tell her this.  But somehow he has to do it; Force knows, there’s nothing else that’s dear to him left in his life now.  Nothing except a few people; just two people, really.  And the chances are he’s said goodbye to one of them for good, this morning.  For both of their safety it will be better if he doesn’t go back.

Which means, like it or not, he has to throw in his lot with the Alliance.  Find this new life Jyn hopes is possible for him.  But find it with her, if he can.

He hopes her promise to sit for him again wasn’t just soothing words.  The thought of Jyn as a common soldier is terrifying; just another body heading into battle with no guarantee even of a competent commander.  But there’s no way he can, or would, keep her from her choice, if that’s truly what it is.  They have to choose freely, now.

_Only please, choose me, Jyn; don’t choose a road I can’t follow you down, a road that leads to death; please choose me, this time_ …

They walk on, and are strangely alone.  It’s a working day, yet the streets are weirdly deserted. 

There’s an odd smell in the air, acrid, like oil smoke and wet stone.  It gets stronger as they make their way through the irregular grid of narrow streets and alleys, slowly coming nearer to Belén Street.  They turn at the south end of Long Dock Street, into the sharp slant of morning sunlight, and there are dark motes dancing in the air.  Building dust, Cassian thinks, and then remembers there was no construction work going on here yesterday.  He holds out a hand, and what lands on it in the sunshine is papery and black, and strangely greasy; it’s a cinder, drifting down from a burned-out building somewhere nearby.

Very nearby; the drifting curtain of ash is blowing towards him from somewhere close, and he is walking towards it.  Hurrying towards it.  He quickens his pace again to keep up with Jyn and they both overtake Bodhi; but then she goes to a run and he stumbles and falls behind.

She reaches the corner and stops, staring into Belén Street, paralysed. 

A thin yellow cordon tape flaps in the air, dancing against her frozen body and away again. 

The ground all around the mouth of the street is wet, running wet, as though from a burst fountain.  The falling soot sticks to it and piles up in drifts where the water carries it.

He reaches Jyn.  He’s vaguely aware of Bodhi coming up more slowly behind him and stopping dead. 

Half of Belén Street has gone.

The surface of the road and the whole of one block have been reduced to smoking holes and piled rubble.  Of Saw’s shop and home, and the tall tenement houses on either side, nothing remains.  Broken stone and brick, and ash, spill out across the whole width of the street.  On both sides of the void, almost every building still standing has a gaping crown of blackened, burned-out timbers.

In front of the rubble, between it and the spot where they stand gaping, a row of upended trestles has been set up.  Lashed to them, displayed like goods in some nightmare market, are bodies.

He doesn’t know most of them - an elderly male Twi’lek, with desiccated lekku and a bloody face – a huge white being missing an arm – a grizzled Talpini, and beside them a young human with long pale hair and brown limbs.  It takes him a moment to recognise the Tognath from the store, minus the breathing mask and with half their torso gone.  But the figure in the centre is unmistakable.

Cassian takes a careful step forward, and another, to Jyn’s side.  She is so still she appears not even to be breathing.  His own breath feels unholy.  Every speck of soot he inhales is the ashes of the dead.

Jyn’s face is cold as a glacier, but the muscles of her jawline quiver and shudder, a growing fissure in the ice.  Her lower lip pushes out, distorts for a second, before she wrenches herself back under control.  In a voice small and fine as ironwork she says “We need to go.”

“Jyn…”

“We should keep moving, we should, we should – keep moving, we –“  but she doesn’t move.  Perhaps can’t.  She stands rigid, fracturing before his eyes. 

Bodhi says “Did you see the sign?”  He touches Cassian’s arm gently and points. 

It’s low-down, in front of the spot where Saw’s broken corpse hangs in its bonds.  “Traitors to the Empire.”

When he looks back at Jyn she’s beginning to break.  Tears start from her eyes.  Her mouth jerks open and shut, making tiny inhaled gulps of sound.  His heart shatters with hers and he reaches out helplessly.  “Jyn.  Jyn, I’m so sorry.”

And “I’m sorry,” Jyn whispers, shaking, staring at her dead.  “I’m sorry, Papa...”

“We shouldn’t hang around,” Bodhi tells Cassian in a low voice. “They’ll be monitoring who comes to look, how long people stay.  We need to go.”

“Jyn.  Come on, you’re right, we need to keep moving.  Come on, that’s it.”  He’s got one arm round her now, guiding her as last night she guided him.  They turn away from the devastated street and she gives one huge gasping sob, as if sucking in her last breath.  For a moment she leans into him and weeps silently.  Then she draws herself up, shaking, resolute; begins to walk with him, slow and unsteady, away from her home. 

After a few streets she starts to talk. “Weeteef deserved better, he’d been in this fight his whole life, he deserved better than to be hung up like a dead chicken.  The kid, the one on the left, with Weeteef, he wasn’t even one of us.  He lived next door, with his father.  Wanted to be a pharmacist.  Hugh.  His name was Hugh.”  She shifts slightly against Cassian’s side and starts to draw away, but when he stumbles on a piece of rubble she puts her arm round his waist again quickly.  “I hope we got a few of the bastards,” she adds after a moment.  “I hope the shooting wasn’t all one-sided…” 

“It had already been going on for a few minutes before you woke up,” he tells her.  “I think it was a proper fight.”

Her eyes are numbly grateful.  They carry on walking, supporting one another.  _Neither of us has anything left here, now, except one another._

The smell of burning is getting less as they move away from the site of the attack, and there are a few people about now, hurrying to work with heads down and grim expressions.  Old Town, in fearful awareness of what happened in its midst last night, must gather itself for a new day notwithstanding.  The sun is still shining, bright and uncaring, as the morning begins. 

Bodhi, just ahead of them, moves with his head up and an expression of studied calm, Jyn’s small pack over his shoulder.  Suddenly he gives a start and plucks the comm from its sleeve pocket; studies the screen without slowing and gives a mirthless _hah_.  “It’s K.  He’s located Knife-edge.”

“Your other contact?” says Jyn dully. 

“Yeah…”  He thinks for a moment and then flicks the unit on.  “K, are you there?  Can you pass on the message that Belén Street is no longer a viable option?”

“Understood,” says K-2’s tiny voice after a second. 

“We’ll take the harbour ferry and meet you at the rendezvous site as soon as possible.  Bring Knife-edge too.  It may not be safe for any of us to stay on-planet.”

“Understood.  I’ll meet you at Tambira.”

“Over and out.”


	32. Chapter 32

It’s strange to walk such familiar streets and know she will never see them again.  Eleven years since they moved here, after that strange spell of constantly changing bases; eleven years undercover as Saw-the-tailor’s schoolgirl daughter, as his apprentice and finally his sales assistant.  Eleven years of her life, over; eleven years of having something approaching a family and a place to belong, of having someone to guide her, someone to look up to, come home to.  All over, now.

_Saw,_ _Papa, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry_ …

Scientists’ daughter, tailor’s daughter, partisans’ daughter.  Nobody’s daughter, now.   Jyn is finally and irrevocably an orphan.

Silk-dock Street.  She used to sit on the bollards on Silk-dock Street, loitering with schoolmates on her way home, watching ships unload.  Eating the crunchy maize kernels they’d bought in paper cornets from the stall outside the school, throwing any that weren’t spicy enough into the water; and talking, talking, talking.  Just a bunch of kids, setting all the worlds to rights and giggling about who liked who best.  Pretending for a few hours that she really was nothing except the tailor’s daughter.  Pretending her life wasn’t real, and that she would not be going home to rush through her school work as if it didn’t matter; because it _didn’t_ matter, because the real homework for her evening was weapons training, bomb-building and hand-to-hand fighting technique.

Now that she can never bring it back, she knows how real it was.  Everything’s gone now, ripped away while she dashed about grumbling that Saw had treated her meanly.  He did what he thought was necessary.  He’s done far worse things, to better people than her.  And now there’s not one iota of it can be undone or made good.  Not one apology can be made that will ever be heard.

Meiloorun Street, Lechuga Street, Arrack Street…

She hopes he died quickly.  Hopes he’d gone down firing; hopes they all had.

She hopes that those whose bodies weren’t hung out on display are buried under the rubble.  Daren’t hope they escaped, because they would be in so much danger, now; hopes it anyway.  If any of them were captured…  A shiver runs through her heart at the thought.  Imperial interrogations are notorious, and once broken  and bled of information, some of the younger members of the cadre would certainly be thought good material for the ‘trooper camps.  _Please, let Maia and the other kids be dead.  Let them not be tortured and raped, let them not be made breeding stock of.  Please…_

Tortuga Street.  Medhu Street.  Every cobblestone, every window and doorstep, so profoundly familiar and every-day.  All of it, invisible to her for years, until now; brilliantly clear this morning, as she passes along these roads for the last time.  Whatever follows, it will not be this life again.  Never to see again those weeds in the cracked pavement, never to pass the dye works and see the rack of colour samples fluttering in the breeze, never to buy fish from the boats tied-up at the quay on Marsh Street, or vegetables from the grocer opposite.  Never again. 

There’s a big barge moored at the end of the line of fishing-boats.  She remembers diving from massive anchor chains like those, shrieking with excitement, on hot summer evenings.  There were happy days, it was not all fighting and fear.  She taught Maia to swim in the dirty water here.  All gone now.

Ferry Lane.  At last, they’re almost there.  

Jyn ventures a look round, and sees Cassian is watching her sidelong.  His eyes flick away guiltily at her glance.  Poor Cassian, so foolish and loving; but it’s too easy just to put him mentally in the box marked “sweet”, the box marked “pitiable”.  Cassian had set off to try and get the data file for them.  No, not for _them_ , she has to be honest about this; almost certainly it was for _her_.  Misguided, totally out of his depth, but far braver than she could have anticipated.  So perhaps he will be able to build a new life in the Alliance, after all.  He’s got a lot more backbone than anyone had given him credit for, anyone including her. 

Yet another crumb of shame lodges in her mind, at the thought of how she’d underestimated him.  Bravery and loyalty.  He’s still beside her now, after everything she’s done.

The journey goes on feeling both unreal and hyper-real, all the way to the jetty at the end, and the small, subdued crowd waiting for the next ferry.  And how can it be, that this is her life now? – walking quietly away from everything?  Unreal-unreal-unreal.  Her family – both her families – dead, her final mission only half accomplished, and not by her - any hope of finishing it hanging in the balance now.  And the man she loved and lied-to, walking beside her, still with her when everyone else has gone.

Him and the Captain, watching the boat come in.  She breathes deeply, fresh air off the water, trying to steady herself.  Holding together, standing on the quayside, watching her companions.

Bodhi’s eyes are calculating and lonely; Cassian’s are confused.  Her own eyes, she’s sure, must be dead as two pebbles.  Cassian’s are still full of life and feeling, even now at their saddest and most uncertain; full of hope, searching for answers. 

Looking around the big harbour basin this surreal, haunted morning she sees sunlight gleaming down from a cloudless sky, glancing off the bright water, reflecting off the whitewashed facades of warehouses in Old Town and the smart villas on the Kavala side.  Pale sea-birds wing their way back and forth in the wake of the ferry as it sets off, with a deep blast on its hooter and white water churning astern. 

Most of the passengers are heading to work.  It’s still so early.  The three of them stand at the aft rail, watching Old Town recede.  Watching Jyn’s life vanish into the brilliant light.

Bodhi checks his comm discreetly. “K says he’s right behind us,” he tells her. 

There’s no sign of the droid on the quay they’ve just left. 

“I guess not literally…”  She takes a careful breath, trying to keep her voice steady.  “Do you still have the? –“

“Safely stowed.  I could wish they hadn’t used such an old-fashioned file format.  Something smaller would have been a damned sight easier to conceal…”  He pats the backpack.  Then “Jyn, I have to ask you this.  Tell me honestly; are you going to be okay?”

“I’m fine,” she says shortly.

On her other side, Cassian strokes the back of one hand gently against her arm.  She looks round at him, sees the concern in his eyes, and a fragile determination.  He’s still here, for her.  She fights the urge to fall into his arms; allows herself to give him a small smile of gratitude. 

It would be better for him to cut loose from the two of them while he still can.  She prays for the strength to tell him that, if the time comes.

“Forgive me,” Bodhi goes on.  “I’m not just asking out of concern.  You have to understand.  Things may get tough; if they catch up with us, if the Guardians are spotted coming in, or they can’t get to us in time.  If it comes to a fight I need to know I can rely on you to stand your ground, not fall apart or run.”

“You can count on me,” Jyn says.  She slides her hands down off the cold durasteel of the ship’s rail, to the weapons hanging at her belt.  Blaster and batons, her tools ready for use as always.  Ready for use, like her.  “Okay, I admit I’m not fine.  I won’t pretend to you.  But I’ll fight.  What else have I got to live for?  I’ll avenge my family, count on that.”

Bodhi looks past her.  “How about you?”

Cassian starts, looks away from her.  His face becomes an empty space as he says confusedly “Me?”

“Can you fight?”

“I – I don’t know.  I don’t think so.  I haven’t touched a gun since I was a child.”

It’s more than she would have expected, and she looks up at him in surprise. 

“My father hunted, in the holidays,” he explains sadly.  “So I’ve used a rifle.  But not since I was six years old.”

There’s something devastating about the mental picture this conjures up.  A lean smiling man with a beard and Cassian’s dark eyes, and an eager child gazing up at him.  She sees them walk home along some winter road, the man carrying a hunting rifle over his shoulder, the boy with a couple of wood-birds or an ice-hare caught for the pot.  It’s heart-breaking.  She’s not the only one who lost everything.

“Okay,” says Bodhi, unmoved.  “If we have to fight, just keep out of the line of fire.  And, both of you - if it comes to the worst, if there’s nothing for it, remember, one of us three has to get this bag and the data disk in it onto the Guardians’ ship.  It doesn’t matter which of us, or how, or when, and it doesn’t matter who gets left behind.  Is that understood?”

“Understood,” Jyn says.  Cassian’s eyes are locked on hers and his lips part unhappily, but he says nothing.  She wills him to understand her. _If it comes to that point, get yourself out and let me cover you.  Please!_

He swallows hard.  Then his eyes go past her to Bodhi, and flick as if he’s trying to send a signal.  A moment, and he does it again, with a tiny frown between his brows; and when she glances round Bodhi is moving politely along the rail, forward towards the bow of the ferry.  She looks back at Cassian and he takes her face between his hands and says “I am not leaving you.”

He kisses her, hard. 

She clutches his jacket.  She ought to push him away.  She can’t do it.  She gasps as their mouths part.  “But – the data – billions of lives depend on it, Cassian, it is more important –“

“Then you carry it, and I’ll carry you!  You said you have nothing to live for.  Please don’t think that!  I love you, I’m not leaving you.”

“I’m not a good person to love…”

“But I love you, just the same.”

For his own sake she should break his heart again now, quickly, she should tell him how misguided he is, shove him away, make him run.  It’s the wildest, most self-indulgent folly in her to cling to this hope.  But he’s kissing her again and she wraps her arms round him and holds him close, lets herself yield to it, lets her mouth press hungrily on his.  For a long moment the nightmare fades, held back by the immediacy of their shared breath, the intimacy of parted lips and bodies held tight against one another till there is no space between.

She feels him flinch infinitesimally as her hand catches on a half-scabbed place on his back.  The kiss breaks off slowly.  She looks into the brown eyes above hers.  Such a brave, beautiful man, so much more to him than the pretty painter she’d thought she knew, those days that seem like a lifetime ago. 

She has to say something.  She cannot say what she should; cannot free him, not if it means hurting him again.  But this much she must say. “Cassian, please.  I love you.  You’re all I have left.  I need you to live.  If I fall, I need to know you’ll save yourself.  Please!  Promise me you won’t die with me!”

He looks sick.  “I am not leaving you!” he repeats, in a voice that mixes anger and passion and despair. “You’re all I have left too!”

“If I’m dead it won’t matter.  If I’m dead I won’t know, I won’t care.  But I’ll die in peace if I know you’ll do what you can to save yourself.  Promise me just this one thing.  _Please.”_

He closes his eyes for a moment on the thought, his mouth narrowing to a line; he looks as if he wants to scream refusal, but then he nods.  Just once, quick as shame.  “But only if you fall, if you’re dead, only then.  I promise; I’ll complete your mission for you.  But only if I know you’re gone.  Only if there’s no hope at all.”  His eyes are very bright and he blinks hard, as if hearing himself say that is enough to break him near to weeping.

“That’s all I ask.  It’s not about the mission.  I just have to know you’ll stay alive if you can.  I can’t bear it if…”  She can’t say it.  She hangs her head.

For all she knows, he’s just promising what she asks to make her feel better; but still, the concession gives her hope.  Surely the instinct of self-preservation has to kick in at some point?  And selfishly she’s glad he said _Only if you’re dead_ ,  because it means he’ll stay with her till the end.  She won’t have to die alone.

He holds her again. “It isn’t going to come to that,” he says, grim, finding determination somewhere in himself. “We’ll find a way to survive this.” 

Jyn can feel his heart pounding against her breast. 

“Thank you,” she murmurs. She draws a deep breath, pushing back her own tears.

The ferry judders to a halt at the dock.


	33. Chapter 33

The levee along the Kavala Canal is a famous spot for evening strolls and romantic trysts.  The canal runs south, and the embankment is topped by a wide path, paved in green marble for the first couple of miles, with hardwood benches at intervals, and picturesque clumps of flowering shrubs. 

The last time Cassian walked out this way he was with a girl.  A pretty creature with black skin and green hair, who was very keen on being kissed on one of those benches.  It feels strange to think of her suddenly; he can’t even remember her name at first.  Kanantha, that was it. 

Whatever life he has ahead of him now, whether twenty minutes or twenty years, it’s hard to imagine it will hold time or inclination for that kind of empty dalliance.  Nothing matters now but to stay alive and see Jyn stay alive, to get her and her data to the Alliance.

He is determined that the promise she extracted from him will not be needed.  He will never leave her.  He’ll stay alive and keep her alive.  He’ll find a way to make it happen.

At least it looks as though the last woman he’ll kiss is the real love of his life.  He’s glad of that.

They walk steadily, mile after mile, and he is tired, his feet and back both aching now.  The canal winds through an elegant suburb; smart villas with gardens around them, tall trees screening them from view.  After the narrow streets of Old Town it feels unnaturally spacious; the world is greener and wider than usual, the sky high and clear.

He’s never been as far as Tambira before, and it is further than he would have chosen to walk on this hot summer morning.  He squares his shoulders and marches on, trying to ignore the throbbing of bruises and half-healed cuts.  Jyn beside him is pale and subdued, but composed.  He took her hand, a mile or more out from the city, and she hasn’t let go; her fingers are warm in his and their grip doesn’t falter.    

The houses get bigger, and are set further apart; their grounds are more spacious, estates rather than mere gardens.  They’ve passed the last bench some time ago and the canal-side path is no longer paved and prettified like a park, but a functional track of beaten earth.  Here and there a private lock closes off a branch of water that runs into an estate, the personal entrance of a mansion.  Narrow bridges carry the towpath here, and they have to separate and cross over one by one.  A slim white launch with blacked-out windows powers up the canal from the direction of the city and passes by.  Its engine is almost noiseless.  A fine white wake scissors out behind it and splashes against the stone revetments below them.  Bodhi and Jyn both keep their hands on their weapons until it’s out of sight.

Ahead, beyond the last big estate, a low hill rises out of the flat land to the south of Coronet City.  At first it looks like an impossibly green meadow, but as they continue to walk Cassian realises he’s misjudging distances; it’s further off, and higher, than he’d imagined, the green is not lush grass but woodland.   The entire slope of the ridge is densely forested. 

The canal swings to the left, turning eastwards.  They trudge on in the growing heat, and the forest comes gradually nearer, a refuge in the hills, dark and secret and safe. 

They’ve passed the last boundary wall now.  There are no more private houses and grounds, and between the Kavala Canal and the ridge of Tambira is nothing but a flat patchwork of farmland.  Groves and orchards, green corn and vegetables, grazing animals, blossoming bean-fields…  The path is still running on a raised berm here, the slope below it overgrown with rough scrub and saplings.  They have an unobstructed view, out over the countryside and back towards the distant towers of Coronet.

“Are we nearly there?” Cassian asks wearily.  His mouth feels dry from the heat.  Jyn squeezes his hand. 

“That’s the beginning of the forest reserve,” she says with a nod towards the wooded ridge. 

“We need to cut through this agricultural land,” Bodhi adds.  “If I see a track or a road soon, we’ll take that.  Otherwise we’ll have to go cross-country.  But I’d rather not ruin some poor devil’s crops if I can help it.”  He checks the comm from his sleeve pocket again.  “That’s odd…”

“What?  Is it K?”

“Yes; but he’s being cryptic.  K’s never cryptic.  Someone else must be with him besides Knife-edge.  He says there are eyes on the road.”  He scans across the landscape, squinting into the light.

“I can’t see anyone,” Jyn says.  “There was just that one boat on the canal.”  She frowns.  “There’s usually more traffic than that...”

“What does it mean, eyes on the road?” Cassian asks.  “We’re alone out here.  Could they be monitoring us by satellite?”

“And if they know where we are,” Bodhi is thinking aloud “Why not strike now?  It doesn’t make sense.  Are they waiting to see where we go, who we meet?  If they’re just keeping an eye on us then the longer we keep moving, the longer we can convince them we’re just regular travellers.  Which means cutting off the path will be a give-away, damn it…”

Cassian looks out across the open flat ground.  It’s maybe two miles now, to the edge of the forest and the cover it will provide.  If they can just get there, they’ll be safe…

Saw and his people thought they were safe.  His father had thought little Cassian and his family were safe, back home on Fest; he’d thought himself safe, so long as he never looked at the things he knew he wasn’t meant to see, so long as he just worked hard, so long as he was good and did as he was told.  There is no such thing as safety, not really, not now. 

The image of the bodies strung up in the burned out street haunts him.

He hopes the Tognath was dead before their breathing mask was stripped off.  Oxygen suffocation is a hard death. 

He hopes it was quick for the old man, too.

 _If she decides to go with you, promise me you will take care of her_...

How desperate Saw must have been. 

He died with blood running down his face, his mouth distorted in pain.  Died without knowing they had succeeded, without knowing Jyn was alive.

_I’ll repay you, sir.  I’ll help Jyn till my last breath._

Her voice interrupts his brooding.  “Why would they know to follow us in the first place?” she says thoughtfully.  “To a satellite we’re just dots on the ground.  How do they know to monitor _us_ in particular?”

There’s a pause, and Bodhi says “Don’t move” coldly.

The comm unit is still in his hand; he adjusts a setting on it and passes it through the air between the three of them.  His jaw tightens. 

“One of you is wearing a transponder.”

Jyn blinks, then holds out her arms to be scanned without hesitation.  “I should be clean, but check me.”  She turns round slowly.

A few quick sweeps and he gives her a nod, gestures her to stand aside.  His eyes turn to Cassian.  “Keep still.”

He pulls both Cassian’s arms up into the air roughly, pushes him round in a circle.  Frowns.  “Yes.  Got it.”

“Got what?” he asks, baffled.  What even _is_ a transponder?

 “It’s in the back seam,” the captain says coldly. 

The back of Cassian’s suit jacket is pulled away from his body and he feels a tugging on the fabric, dragging down on his shoulders for a moment; then there’s a ripping sound.  “There.”  Bodhi shoves him away; he turns, and the younger man has his weapon up. 

In the palm of his left hand rests a small device, a flat chip the shape of an arrowhead. 

“Imperial signalling device.”  Bodhi looks ready to kill.  “How long have you had this on you?  Who gave it to you?  Was it Krennic?”

“What?  No!  No, it can’t be, he wouldn’t – you wouldn’t?!”  Jyn’s face is white with shock; she stares from him to the mystery gadget.

“What is it? – I don’t understand - that was in my jacket?”  Stupidly he starts fumbling at his own back, checking the damage.  As if it matters whether his coat is torn, now, with a loaded blaster in his face. 

He looks back at Jyn, despairing.   But her face is clearer, and “Give me that,” she snaps, grabbing the chip.  She slaps the palm of her other hand in front of the gun barrel; Bodhi will have to shoot her hand off if he wants to fire.  “This isn’t an Imperial bug, it’s one of _Saw_ ’s.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ve planted enough of the damned things,” she says bitterly.  Her eyes come to rest on Cassian’s again.  Her face is open again, though she sounds heartbroken.  “I guess he didn’t trust you with me after all…” She shakes herself, straightens and sets her shoulders, her jaw, firmly.  “Bodhi, Cassian’s not a spy.  He’s no Imperial.”

“What about his friend?  Mr Eggs-on-toast?”

“No…” Cassian breathes.  If his jacket were bugged then…

Jyn shoves the little gadget back at the captain.  “I’m telling you, it’s one of Saw’s.  He always used the same kind.  But if it’s been spotted then they’ve probably been monitoring us since we first got into the Archives.”  She breaks off, her face horrified.

“No,” Cassian says again.  “No, but that would mean –“

He led them to Saw and the partisans.  He led them to Tivik’s home.  Led them here, now, to the rendezvous.

There’s a faint sound in the distance; engine noise, far off but coming closer.  Jyn curses.  “We’ve stopped for too long, they’re panicking in case they lose us!”  For a moment her fist tightens on the bug; then she swings her arm back and throws it into the canal below.  “Run!”

She races along the canal path.  Cassian runs with her; after a moment he hears the captain’s footsteps, behind him, then alongside.  “We need to be out of sight before they get here!” Bodhi pants, overtaking them.  He’s charging his gun as he runs.

“Checking the signal out will only keep them there a moment!”  Jyn agrees, pounding along.  “Come on, this way!”

They’ve covered a few hundred yards since the moment when they paused.  The canal continues to curve away to the east and there’s a field of winter wheat below the levee, bordered with coarse grass and wildflowers, and then, a hundred yards off, an orchard, its acres of fruit trees covered with pale pink blossom and new leaves.  Between the farmland and them are a slope of scrubby undergrowth, a boundary ditch with a few stunted conifers at the bottom, and a rusting fence.  

Jyn leaps down the side of the embankment and they follow her, skidding and scrabbling to the foot of the bank. 

They crouch in the semi-shelter, looking back the way they’ve come as the noise of engines gets louder. 

Bodhi is checking his comm again.  “The U-wing should have been here by now.  We have to get to the ridge somehow.”

“Too open; we’d never make it that far.  We might be able to get to the cover of the orchard but we’re going to need to fight for it.”  Jyn is panting but calm.  “Your friends; if they hear fighting, will they scatter and run?”

“Master Malbus and Master Îmwe, run?  Not a chance!”

“Masters, eh?”

“It’s a long story.  They trained me.  If we engage the enemy and they’re within earshot they’ll be here.”

“Start a fight, use it as a signal?”

He nods.  “It’s our best shot.”

They all duck further down into the undergrowth as above the berm a large skimmer transport appears, approaching at top speed.  There are thirty or more figures on board; Stormtroopers in white, grey-clad officers, and two security droids, spindly iron-black figures the image of K-2.  And two prisoners; a baby-faced man, cuffed but still in his bathrobe and sleep clothes, and a furious, panting Togruta, also bound, with her lekku held fast in the grip of one of the droids.

Cassian looks away in shame from the sight of his friends, captive.  _What have I done?  Force alive, I’ve murdered them both!_

There’s a momentary touch on his arm, a ghost of reassurance.   He looks up into Jyn’s eyes.  “It’s not over yet,” she whispers calmly.

She crawls away, putting her head close to Bodhi’s as they confer in whispers.  Above, the skimmer comes to a halt a short distance off.  The ‘troopers start to dismount, splitting into groups to spread along the path, searching.

“Okay, “ Jyn whispers, working her way back to him through the underbrush.  “Okay.  We’re going to attack when Bodhi gives the signal.  When you see us move up the slope, your job is to follow.  Get to that skimmer, get Tivik off it.  Get him down and stay down.  Can you do that?”

“What about Mayneta?”  He can’t believe he’ll even make it to the top of the overgrown bank before he’s gunned down.

“I think she’ll cope,” Jyn says with a faint grin.  The prospect of going down fighting seems horribly to have cheered her.  “Are you ready?”

He swallows; looks for one last time into her sea-coloured eyes.  The starry flecks seem to be spinning.  He has to trust her.  “No.  But I’ll do my best.”

There’s a tiny pause, her eyes locked on his.  The air is warm around them.  He can smell the cherry blossom all the way from the next field.

“I love you,” Jyn says.  “Know that.  Whatever happens.  You’ve been my life.”

“Jyn –“

“Go!” snaps Bodhi; and she turns and draws her gun, and springs up the slope like a shadow-buck.

He has no choice but to follow.


	34. Chapter 34

Bodhi is in the lead.  He runs crouching, a practised movement that takes him up the slope and into the lee of a clump of spring-bush green with unripe berries.  Jyn reaches him a moment later but by the time Cassian catches up she and the captain are both worming up-slope again, almost flat on their bellies this time, working their way with their elbows, both of them with blasters gripped in front.  He hunkers down behind the bush they vacated, nerving himself to follow again.

Above, the three officers and one of the droids have descended from the skimmer-craft after the ‘troopers.  White-clad figures scour the slopes, some of them casting back to the point where Jyn threw the bug while others keep guard or stand looking out across the farmland.  They’re near enough that he can hear the harsh mechanical crackle of their voices, and the tramp of their feet on the path.

Tivik is slack-faced with fear, glancing at Mayneta and then away again, staring around wildly.  There are bruises down one side of his face and his mouth works as though he’s trying not to cry.  May’s face is a mask of icy rage as she struggles again to pull her head-tails free.  The droid barely seems to register her efforts.  It turns its globular head, scanning the area methodically.  Pauses for a split second, looking his way.  Cassian cringes; but it doesn’t react, even though it seemed to be staring right at him with those gleaming sockets. 

He braces himself to move again.  There’s a mounting ladder on the near side of the skimmer car.  If he can just reach that, he might have a chance to get on board…

A light winks on Bodhi’s sleeve; the comm unit signalling.  The captain swings his weapon into firing position, nods to Jyn lying at his side; draws a bead on a target as she copies him.  They open fire simultaneously.

The two nearest ‘troopers fall, both neatly drilled through the head.  With the second round of shooting one of the officers drops with a scream, and a third trooper.  But the others rush forward, spattering bolts of energy chaotically into the ditch and the undergrowth.  Cassian cowers back, gasping at the noise and the stink of weapons discharge, but he can’t stop watching Jyn.  He sees her dart forward further along the bank, pick off another soldier from the shelter of a tussock of myrtle.  Gunfire rakes along the slope and she ducks.  A few feet away, Bodhi too is pinned down as the grass is hit around him. 

It’s insane.  They’re never going to make it, none of them.

He looks back at Tivik, and sees that one of the officers is back on the skimmer again.  Holding a blaster to his friend’s head.

“Hold your fire!” the man shouts.

Jyn gets off another pot-shot in the momentary lull.  But the officer cocks his weapon and she hesitates, staring.  Bodhi has frozen.

“We have prisoners.  Give yourselves up or we will execute them both!”

_I am a fool and a coward – why didn’t I run straight to the top?  Why didn’t I even try to get there?  I might have got to them.  No, I would be dead by now, dead already.  I’m about to die now anyway.  We all are.  We’re all going to die here…_

“I’ll count to five,” shouts the officer.  “Then I fire.  Give yourselves up and you can save these innocent civilians!”  He begins to count.  “One –“

Tivik wails audibly.

Bodhi inhales and brings his weapon to bear; moving painstakingly slowly, taking very careful aim.

“Two –“

From the shelter of the myrtle clump Jyn looks back at Cassian.  Ten feet of rough grass and sunshine between them, a space between them forevermore.  She smiles at him.

“Three – four –“

With a bloodcurdling shriek Mayneta breaks free from her captor and launches herself at the officer’s back.  His shot goes wild as they both plunge off the side of the vessel.  The droid has whirled round, as if trying to catch her again; but its hands swing out instead, to punch the two nearest Stormtroopers in the neck with a couple of ugly crunches.  The men go down; the droid catches their rifles, one in each hand.  With perfect reflexes it turns on the remaining troops and opens fire.

Jyn and Bodhi both hurl themselves from cover, blasting wildly, scrambling up to the path.  Cassian snatches a breath and begins to run after them.  He passes Jyn’s myrtle; passes the tufty grass where the captain had crouched; passes burnt patches and a splash of blood.  His own blood pounding inside him like an engine.  His feet skid on the dry ground and he falls to his knees; digs his hands into the grass and drags himself up the last few feet.

The skimmer is fifteen yards away.  Blaster bolts rip through the air, energy discharge ricocheting off the polished durasteel hull.  There’s no sign of Mayneta, but as he crouches and runs bent double he sees Jyn ahead; she takes aim and hits the second droid square in the main chassis.  It falls with a grinding of servos, a squirt of sparks; jerks and is still. 

A bolt hits the ground at Cassian’s feet.  Instinctively he tries to shield himself with upraised arms.  Jyn races on, not looking back, booted feet loud on the gritty dirt of the towpath for a second before the din of another round of gunfire covers the sound.

On the far side of the skimmer-craft someone gives a horrible yell of pain.

_Don’t listen, don’t look, don’t think; don’t look for Jyn, don’t think about what anyone is doing; just get to the ladder.  You can do it.  She knows how to fight and you don’t.  You have a job.  Get to Tivik before it’s too late for him._

He’s at the foot of the ladder.  He leaps for the highest rung he can grab, scrabbles for a footing; hauls himself up the first five rungs and grips the sixth, and he can peer over the side into the open passenger well.

Tiv’s terrified face gawps up at him.  Alive; wet-eyed and moaning on each breath, but alive.  Cassian flings an arm over the parapet and grabs the front of the loose bathrobe.  “Tiv!  Get up!  Come on!”

“Help…” His friend’s voice is a breathless whimper.

“I’m trying to help!  We have to get out of here, come on!”  He pulls, dragging Tivik to the side of the little craft, terrified that the noise he’s making is not fear but pain, that he’s already been hit, is already incapacitated or bleeding out.  _We’re both going to die, we’re all going to die here_... 

He refuses the voices rushing in his head, drives them down and away like gnats. 

The shooting is still going on all around.  If the others are still fighting then so can he.  “Come _on_ , Tiv!  _Move_!”

The sound of his name seems to galvanise Tivik; with another little wail he gets clumsily to his feet and leans over the side; snatches wildly for the ladder and misses, and overbalances.  He slides down headfirst, grabbing at Cassian frantically, and they both fall the six feet into the dirt.  Tivik yelps.

“Krif, krif, ow, krif!”

Cassian rolls under the floating hull as three ‘troopers dash by.  He reaches back and hauls Tivik after him.  “We need to get down!”

His eyes are drawn past the petrified face in front of him, to the scene beyond.  It’s Jyn, and she’s lost her blaster.  Her right hand grips the short truncheon she had earlier, and she whirls and cracks it into the first soldier’s helmet as he comes round the bow of the skimmer hull.  Next second she reverses her stroke to smash him in the vulnerable neck joint with a back-slash.  He starts to crumple up and she catches him by one flopping arm and hurls him bodily into the next man.  They crash together and both fall to the ground under the skimmer.

Jyn spins and wallops the next man before he can bring his weapon to bear at close quarters.  His armoured shoulder-plate shatters under the force of her attack.  She’s a  tornado of rage and unbridled force, beating down armed men like so many stalks of sky-corn.  It’s beautiful and terrifying to watch.

The first man she hit lies unmoving, but the second one is pulling himself upright as she fights his companion; he’s lifting his blaster rifle, taking aim at her punching, whirling figure.  The recharge hums with energy.  With no time to think Cassian scrambles up and throws himself on the ‘trooper from behind.

He’s no fighter; he brings the man down by impact alone.  And then they are scuffling like a pair of apes after a bit of fruit, and somehow the blaster is dropped, and lifted again, and fired, at point blank range.  The white helmet sways in front of him.  There’s a nauseating stench of melted plastoid and burnt flesh, and blood spurts onto the scorched armour, onto the blaster and the hand holding it.

Cassian staggers back and falls to his knees, gripping the gun convulsively.  Crashes into Tivik.  Fights down the urge to vomit, the urge to howl in terror and shock.  Stares at the man he just killed.  It can’t be real, but it is.  A body, a dead man, he just killed someone. He killed…

“Ahh, krif, what have you done?” chokes Tiv.  “Is he dead?  _Krif_!”

“I think so…” – but there’s no _think_ about it, he is sure the man is dead.  Shot through the head.  Dead; he killed, he killed someone.

A shadow falls across them from the far side of the hull and he turns to see another Stormtrooper, another blaster, the barrel pointing directly at him.  His arm comes up, unnaturally slowly, as if he’s going to disarm death somehow by waving this stolen gun of his.  Again there’s that sharp hum of the power recharging, like a wasp or a lightning bolt, a living thing whining in his hand.  Everything is too real, and entirely unreal.  He’s covering Tivik and his friend wails in horror, a thin helpless sound like a tearful child.  Fear crouched behind him, the end of all chances in front, a nightmare of broken thoughts; there’s blood on his hands and dirt flying in the air, and Cassian depresses the trigger on the blaster a second time. 

Killed, he’s killed.  He’s a killer. 

A harsh voice says “We have to get out of here,” and it is weird to recognise it as his own.  He’s lurching to his feet, still holding the blaster.  With which he has shot two men.  Shot.  Killed.  He hauls Tivik up and drags him back towards the western side of the levee, the slope up which he raced just moments ago.  They stumble down and skid onto their faces on the dry ground, half-hidden in a tussock of scrubby bushes.

There’s still a din above them, of fighting and shooting and yelling.  He can’t bear to look up.  Has to, because he has no idea where Jyn is, or even if she’s still alive.  Nothing makes sense, the noise and the horror, and the rushing figures up on the path are kicking up so much dirt that he can’t see anything clearly.  Is that Bodhi?  Is that Mayneta?  And the droid, the one that released May, could that have been K-2? 

Tivik is wriggling, trying to get up, still moaning swearwords on every outbreath.  A blaster bolt crackles through the air above them leaving a reek of ozone and Cassian throws an arm over his friend to keep him down.  _Get him down and stay down, can you do that?_   He’s trying, he’s just trying to do as he was told.

He’s shaking and there’s dust in his mouth.  It tastes like death.  His right hand clenches on the butt of the stolen blaster.  _Is this how my father died?  Is this what it feels like, the last moments of a life?_

There’s a faint humming, somewhere far off, a sound so distant it’s no more than a vibration in the ground.  He burrows deeper into the dirt, pinning Tivik down with the last of his strength.

Above, suddenly, around the stranded skimmer the shooting stops.  There’s a ghastly quiet before footsteps crunch heavily to the top of the embankment.

“They’re here,” says the droid.  It sounds almost amused.  “Hiding.  As instructed.” 

So it is K-2SO, then. 

More footsteps approach; one set running, the others unsteady, dragging.  Cassian inhales another mouthful of dust and drags his courage up with it; raises his head to see who has survived.

Mayneta.  The bracelets of the stun cuffs are still in place on her wrists but the links between them have been smashed as if by a hammer-blow.  There’s a huge violet bruise running right round one of her lekku.  In her hand the miniature vibro-blade drips crimson with blood. 

She leaps down and gathers Tivik up, gasping “Oh baby, are you okay?” and they cling to one another, sobbing with relief.

Behind her, K-2, and then, lame and bleeding, Bodhi. 

Cassian hauls himself to his feet.  He aches all over, body and soul one fused block of pain.  He hefts the weapon in his hand and stares at it, looks around at the dozens of bodies scattered along the levee.  “Where’s Jyn?”

Every figure he can see is limp, prone, bloody…

_Please, no…_

She emerges from the far side of the empty skimmer, still carrying her baton, with a massive stolen rifle now in the other hand.  She’s filthy, roadside dust caking one side of her face and body as though she’s fallen and rolled in it.  But she moves normally.  Unhurt.  Alive and unhurt.

He staggers back up the slope to her, saying her name helplessly.  The gratitude in her eyes is like a beacon.  He drops the blaster and takes her in his arms.  The truncheon and rifle thump him in the hips and back as she responds.  For a moment her grip is convulsive.  “You’re okay, you’re okay!” she gasps.

Her hair is bedraggled and dirty, her face grimy; it’s oddly like the very first time he held her, kneeling in the studio, his hands and her face both blackened with charcoal.  Her warm body alive and desperate against his.  He wants to hold her close and not release her, to protect her until his last breath.  He tightens his hands in the fabric of her vest and buries his face in her neck.  _Jyn, Jyn, thank the Force_ …

“Hug later, guys, okay?” Bodhi’s voice is taut.  “There’s another lot coming.”

The engine noise he’d heard; it’s clearer now, coming closer.  As they break apart he sees it.  An airborne dot, approaching steadily along the distant canal bank.  Another skimmer, larger than this one. 

“I estimate three minutes and eleven-point-three seconds before they reach us,” says K-2 chattily.  It bends and picks up Cassian’s discarded blaster; offers it to him.  “Did you get anyone?”

He closes his eyes as for a moment the smell of burning hits him again.  “Yes.  Two of them.”

“Well done.  You’re a real rebel now.” 

The engine noise is getting louder.  The droid turns on its heel and lopes down the embankment, fast and ungainly.  There’s nothing for it but to follow.  They throw themselves down the slope, begin to run.  Down the bank, through the rough grass and bushes; across the ditch at the bottom, into the trees and out again, K-2 crushing the boundary fence and trampling it down like straw.  The open field; uneven, soft ground underfoot, brilliant green stalks of young grain in the sunlight, scarlet water-poppies and bright grass-marigold.  The orchard ahead.  Breathing rough, harsh in his throat.  The sweet smell of cherry blossom.  The skimmer coming closer, engines roaring up behind them.  The horrible weight of the blaster in his hand.

Jyn racing beside him.  Still alive, still running.

A burst of repeater fire rakes up the soft clods of plough-soil to one side, flings shredded greenery into the air.  Ahead, K-2 is ripping a second fence clean out of the ground and throwing it down.  The orchard; shade, cover, at last.  The droid is still armed, a heavy-calibre blaster rifle; it swings the weapon up and lets off a string of energy bolts, covering their flight.  Answering fire strafes the field and the nearest tree trunks.

And they are into the trees.


	35. Chapter 35

They run past K-2.  They’re panting, staggering, battered, bloody.  Looking back Jyn can see the second transport coming up beside the abandoned skimmer for a moment.  It slows and makes a single pass before swooping down over the field they’ve just crossed.

“Get back!” shouts Bodhi.  “Back into the trees, get into cover!”  He gestures wildly, urging them on.  He’s carrying the backpack in one hand and as she passes he thrusts it at her.  “Take it!”  There’s blood on his arm and down the back of his hand.  She remembers noticing he was limping as they ran.  She catches his eye for a moment and he nods, pressing the bag into her hands.  “Take it, go.”  His face is calm.  She takes the pack from him, heads on into the orchard.  Does not look back.

Cassian is still panting beside her.  She has to keep her mind on this, on now; on running, on still breathing, still having a gun in her hand.  Not look back, never look back.  The captain isn’t dead but an injured man will slow them down.  Every moment she’s still alive is another step towards hope; she has to think of it that way.  Has to keep going, stay alive, keep Cassian alive, keep the data disk safe, for as long as she can.  There’s a blaster pistol still trailing from Cassian’s right hand; trailing and flailing.  She tries not to think of what it will cost him, after, knowing he took a life.  They’ve made it this far.  They have the data.  She has to focus on that.

They duck behind a tree at last, both gasping for breath; fall to their knees to crouch side by side in the shelter of the trunk.  Jyn shrugs the straps of the bag over one shoulder quickly.  She checks the charge on her weapon, finds it half-gone already.  Footsteps thunder up, close by; she looks round and sees May and Tivik reach a neighbouring tree.  May has acquired a couple of rifles to add to her flick-knife.  As Jyn watches the Togruta calmly presses one into her companion’s hand.  He looks down at it and swallows visibly before hefting it.  His face is miserable and frightened, though he holds the gun with marginally more assurance than Cassian.

K-2 lopes past, still with a blaster in each hand; turns in passing to say chattily “There are approximately forty troops disembarking behind us.  Continued evasive action is recommended.”  He runs on, his long-legged gait looking curiously leisurely for all its speed.  She shouts “Where’s Bodhi?” after him but he doesn’t look back.

They are getting separated.  Perhaps it’s a good idea not to keep together.  Lines of sight among the trees are poor and the light is uneven.  Scattered targets will be less obvious.

She touches Cassian’s arm.  “We should keep moving.” 

They run again, through the ranks of trees, in and out of dappled sunlight, dodging round knarled trunks, ducking under low-hanging branches.  For a few moments the only sounds are their breath and their feet pounding.  Then behind them the shooting starts.

It’s indiscriminate fire and it advances like a wall of violence; it’s the classic assault technique of troops trained to flatten opposition solely by weight of numbers and firepower.  Terrifying to hear bearing down on one, but not the best mode of attack in this kind of terrain.  She can use that. 

Jyn swerves behind another tree, pulling Cassian with her, and drops to one knee.  Steadying her side against the trunk she takes aim and places her shots, fires a tight spread of bolts into the pursuers.  Three figures fall and the advance slows for a moment as the line has to spread to close up the gap.  Answering fire rakes the tree canopy and the trunk, scattering ripped leaves and splinters.  Jyn ducks back into cover and gathers herself to run again.

“Do you want me to shoot?”  Cassian asks anxiously.

“Not at this distance, wait until they’re closer.”  There’s another momentary lull and she grabs him again.  “This way, quick!”  She runs, firing backwards as they dart through a couple more lines of trees and take refuge once again.  Off to the left Mayneta is using the same street fighting technique; fire, run, take cover, fire again.  Tivik in her wake runs clumsily and shoots messily, wasting half his chances.  But he keeps going.  K-2 has vanished ahead.

There’s no sign of Bodhi.

She peers out of their hiding place.  Thirty yards away, white-clad figures are moving forward, slow and inexorable, showering the ground in front with blaster fire in regular bursts.  Jyn hunkers down, picking her targets and taking aim carefully.

And blinks, as a dark shape moves in the sunlight and shade behind the line of ‘troopers, silent and fast as a shadow itself.  There’s a flicker as a long pale stick snaps through the air, sweeping and striking; and two soldiers drop like stones.  The dark figure vanishes back into the trees as neighbouring ‘troopers jump and stare; they bunch up, firing random panicked shots.  Next moment the shadow reappears, ten yards away, and repeats the manoeuvre; spring forward, bring two men down with crippling blows, vanish.  She gets a better look this time, a glimpse of a slender man in dark robes.  He moves like a ghost, but no ghost ever had such viciously effective fighting moves.

The line of Stormtroopers has been disrupted anew.  Jyn grins at the opportunity, places her shots again and takes out two more soldiers. 

She has no idea who the ninja-like figure is, but this unlooked-for help can surely only mean one thing; somewhere nearby, somewhere on the far side of the orchard, their extraction must have arrived.

The advancing troops are moving more slowly, confidence in their own power undermined by these uncanny silent attacks from the rear.  Jyn gets another kill-shot.  Looks round to gasp quickly “Is there any sign of a ship ahead of us?”

“Nothing,” says Cassian; and she looks back in time to see the mystery figure reappear and pick off another ‘trooper.  Several soldiers round on him this time but the stranger dodges with lightning speed, leaping out of one man’s firing line and pivoting on his stick with both feet flying clean off the ground.  He fells one of his attackers with an aerial kick as the first two gun one another down shooting across him.  A fourth ‘trooper tries to rush him but the man drops to the ground and his quarter staff cracks into the man’s ankles and then his knees, and smashes into his helmet as he falls.  Next second the shadow has gone again, using the staff to vault into the nearest tree before rapidly climbing out of sight. 

A dozen ‘troopers close in on the tree and gunfire spurts angrily after his vanishing figure, but torn leaves and cherry blossoms are the only things that fall. 

“What the hells?” Cassian is crouching beside her, staring back at the scene.

“I know, impressive, isn’t it?”  She takes advantage of the soldiers’ distraction to pick another man off; makes to fire again and realises her blaster is barely recharging.  “Krif, I’m out.”  She nudges Cassian back, raises her voice to shout “May, Tiv, we need to move again before they reach us!”

The Stormtroopers advance once more as orders are shouted from behind them.  Blaster bolts burn the air.  Jyn and Cassian, Mayneta and Tivik dash onward again, deeper into the orchard.  There are shots going to either side of them, being fired deliberately wide, and instinctively they draw closer together, till they are running in a close pack, ducking from tree to tree. 

_Damn it, they’re herding us._

They fall in a huddle behind another tree as the gunfire gets closer.  Jyn scrabbles for one of the energy packs on her belt.  “May!  Gotta recharge, cover me!”

May is grinning when she looks up; it looks as though she’s been spoiling for this fight for years.  She leans out from their shelter and lets fly with the blaster rifle.  “Fall back, I’ll cover you all.”

There’s no time to debate it.  Jyn slams the reload into position and springs up, sends two shots into the rear and starts to run again.  “Come on!”

The enemy are less than twenty yards off now.  Bolts zip past Jyn’s feet, scissoring into the grass around her.  The backpack jolts against her spine as she runs.  Feet pounding, head hunched, eyes darting left to check on Cassian racing at her side.  She can hear Tivik coming up behind, panting heavily, sounding as if he’s about to throw up with exhaustion.   Ahead, there’s light through the trees; and then suddenly an open space ahead, wide, full of daylight, and the hills beyond.  A fence of wooden posts and wire coils.  Jyn blasts a post out of the ground, watches the wires lash back as their tension is severed.  She dashes out of the shelter of the trees.

Into a field of reddish ploughed soil and cabbages.  Row upon row of them like half-buried heads.  The wooded ridge of Tambira still more than a mile away.  And no sign of a rescue ship.

_Krif._

She ducks back into the orchard, blocking Cassian, gesturing to Tivik and to Mayneta coming up behind him to take shelter.  “We’ll be sitting targets out there.  Stay back!”

They huddle together again, pressed up against another tree.  Rough bark against her arm, drooping branches obscuring her view; Jyn peers through the leaves, scanning across the field, searching. 

There is, as Cassian said earlier, nothing.  Just vegetables and bare earth. 

She’s acutely aware of him at her side; breathing hard, shaking slightly, his body pressed against hers.  When she looks round he’s still holding the gun.  He raises it, slowly, pointing it back the way they came; bracing it two-handed, trying to keep it stable.   His eyes meet hers, frightened and alert.

Mayneta has thrown herself down on the other side of the trunk.  “They’re spreading out,” she gasps.  “We’re cornered.  Want me to draw their fire?”

“Not yet.” 

“Where are the others?”

“Bodhi’s behind us somewhere.  Haven’t seen K for a while.  Did you see the mystery man?”

“Guy doing zama-shiwo?  I lost him.  Just like these kriffers did!”  May’s grin is savage.  She reaches out an arm and rubs Tivik’s back.  “You okay, peach?”

His voice quavers slightly.  “I can hear engines.  Reinforcements!”

“Or our ride out of here!”

He shakes his head. “They’re coming from behind us…”

Jyn shifts a branch aside with her gun barrel.  The white-clad figures are moving out into the field from a point fifty yards or so to her left; they keep close together, a moving cordon, weapons upraised and ready to fire.

There are a lot more of them than she’d previously thought.  Tiv is right; they’ve had reinforcements.

There’s still no sign of Bodhi.  It seems unfair that he should have been lost in this way, just from falling behind.  Perhaps he’s still out there, creeping round, preparing a surprise attack from the rear.  Like the mystery man; but there’s no sign of him, either.  Whether they fell or got away, whether it was five troopers that were incapacitated or twenty-five, in the end it’s made no difference. 

The sound of engines is coming closer.  Another transport of some kind, approaching from the direction of the city, flying low. 

“We’re pinned down,” May observes ruefully.

Jyn’s hands are sweating on the grip of her blaster.  She can hear the wind, and the transport coming, and the faint mechanical voices of the ‘troopers relaying orders as their line stretches out across the full width of the field; and, close by, the rapid, exhausted breathing of the three people she’s going to die beside.  Branches toss in the growing downdraught and torn leaves and flowers scatter; the warm air smells of sap and blossom and blaster discharge.  She meets Cassian’s gaze again for a moment, through the silent gust of petals.

His eyes are very bright.  She makes herself smile at him, since there probably won’t be another chance.

“Keep low,” she tells him.  “Place your shots.”  And then says again “It’s not over yet.”

They both know it is, this time; but the words are a comfort.

Orders crackle out, and in front of them and behind the Stormtroopers open fire.  Blaster bolts sizzle around them; scorching the foliage, slamming into tree trunks, severing branches.  It’s generalised fire again, but the moment one of her little party opens fire and gives away their location those shots will be slamming into them.  The engine noise is almost on top of them now.

Jyn raises her weapon, feeling the vibration in the air all around her.  Beside her Cassian lifts his own gun awkwardly and braces himself.  Mayneta growls; Tivik, for once, is silent.

With a roar, the approaching ship blasts into view from behind; flying dangerously low, clipping the treetops as they lash in the backdraught.  It banks round sharply, turning almost on its own axis as it descends.

It’s not an Imperial transport.  It’s a U-wing, battered, meteor-streaked and dirty, the hold door already opening before it even reaches the ground.  In the mouth of the hatch is a figure standing with braced legs and holding a large gun.  The man opens fire as soon as his line of sight is clear, straight into the back of the Imperials. 

Troopers fall, screaming, scattering in disarray.  The gunman shoots on, picking men off with devastating speed and accuracy.  The soldiers stumble, fire back wildly, try to rally, but the seamless line is shattered, the blockade gone; the path to escape is suddenly wide open.

The U-wing bumps to the ground in a blast of hot air and a stench of burnt earth and brassicas.

“Run for it!” shouts May.

Cassian is already on his feet; he grabs Jyn’s arm as she scrambles up.  “Come on, Tiv!” she calls out.  And they run.

It’s thirty yards to the ship.  The ground feels soft underfoot after the hard earth between the trees; loose plough-soil set with a hundred trip hazards. 

Jyn runs and shoots; there’s shooting behind her and to either side, and up ahead the man in the U-wing is shooting too.  The air stings around her, dizzying with noise and heat.  Twenty yards, fifteen.  Gunfire everywhere.  Something slaps the side of her head and she stumbles, wrenching an ankle, and sprawls headlong on the soft ground.  Tripped on a cabbage, a fucking cabbage.  Cassian whirls, face aghast; he falls to his knees beside her, his mouth working, face pale and staring in fear, then gasping with relief as she pulls herself up and tries to stagger on again.  Agony lances up through her left leg.  _Krif, something’s gone_.  Cassian stands, covering her, steadies his gun, fires.   _He really isn’t much of a shot.  Weird how one notices such things.  He has no idea how to deal with the recoil._  

She’s struggled to her feet again but she’s wincing with pain, almost falling with every step.  Her ankle stabs as if a blade is being driven in.  Cassian stops trying to shoot anything; his arm goes round her and he lifts her and supports her weight, pulling her beside him.

Tivik is ahead of them, flailing and cursing.  The man with the gun ceases firing for the few seconds needed to grab him and physically haul him into the hold of the ship.

Jyn looks back.  Mayneta is retreating composedly at the rear of their little group, walking backwards, keeping up a steady pattern of fire.  

She wrenches out of Cassian’s arms, braces herself upright, raising her own weapon to give covering fire.

“Come on!”  Cassian slaps her gun down, hanging on to her, his face wild and grim.

“Take the bag!”  She tries to shrug it from her back but his arm is in the way.

“No!”

He pulls her close, catching her free arm up round his shoulders; hauls her up and drags her the last ten yards.  The U-wing’s hatch is in front of her, wide open, a dark interior where the burly sniper stands shooting and the distraught Tivik gasps and fights to reload his exhausted blaster.  There’s a step up and she stumbles and misses it, falls from Cassian’s embrace to her knees, yelping at the jolt.  His arm is round her again immediately and he heaves her off the ground unceremoniously and lumps her bodily aboard.  Durasteel hull plating, cold through her clothing.  Her ankle feels like it’s on fire and her head is ringing from the noise.  She twists round, clutching at him, dragging him inside after her. 

They aren’t safe yet, there are energy bolts flying like a blizzard and she’s lost her gun in that last fall.  But for the first time in the last hour Jyn suddenly sees the possibility of survival ahead of her.  They could make it.  They could actually be going to make it.

Mayneta is still moving calmly backwards towards them, firing as she goes.  Cassian is bracing himself against the jamb of the door, trying to aim properly.  When he fires, his shot goes wide.  He squeezes the trigger again regardless, shooting atrociously but shooting, fighting for his life, for all of their lives. 

She reaches out to him.  “Give me that!”  Next moment the blaster is in her hand and he is steadying her against his shoulder as she adds her own covering fire to the barrage from the gunman beside them. 

Mayneta reaches the ship and turns to climb aboard.  “Get us out of here!”

The gunman grunts but does not budge from his position at the hatch.  The engines are running and they could be airborne already, but the ship doesn’t move.

Jyn picks off another ‘trooper.  “What are we waiting for?!”

“Chirrut,” the big man says simply.  She has no idea what or who that is, even if the word is Basic or another language.  The man holds his ground without saying more; goes on shooting into the Imperials as they regroup and begin to cluster their fire. 

“Take off!  Kriffing take off!” shouts Tivik behind them, and she hears Cassian reply almost calmly “He’s waiting for someone.”

“I don’t care!  Get us kriffing out of here!  I don’t wanna die!”

Jyn is just lining up another shot when she sees movement in the trees behind her target.  The black-clad figure vaults out of the upper branches, somersaulting through the air to land lightly on the balls of his feet and fell Jyn’s target with a single deft swing of his quarterstaff.

“Chirrut!” shouts the big man over the recharge hiss of his massive repeater gun.

The newcomer is stranded in the middle of the enemy; he should be dead already, but instead he goes swiftly and gracefully into the attack, with perfectly-aimed blows and crisp swipes of the stick.  Within moments the line is irreparably broken.  Jyn finds herself grinning, stunned by the elegance of this fighting style, the economy and grace of each move.  The ‘troopers rally and turn on the man and he dodges and strikes and bounces out of the way, turns their anger and aggression around and sends it back on them with barely a flicker of tension in his face.

With all eyes on him, another figure drops from the branches of a tree and makes a dash for the ship.  Limping and stumbling, Bodhi runs now like a man with very little strength left.  Jyn’s breath knots inside her for a moment like something impossible to swallow.  Can he make it?  She crouches to one side to make room for him; he’s almost at the hatch when a blaster bolt ricochets from the hull and snaps against him.  He staggers, sprawls with a sharp cry.  There’s a fresh burn down one side of his jacket and he clutches the place, gasping with pain; and it is Cassian who leans out to grab hold of him and pull him aboard. 

Jyn fires another shot.  The final Stormtroopers in the field fall, one to her blaster, the others to the last neat strokes of the ninja’s stick.

“Chirrut!  Over here!”  The gunman puts his weapon up at last. 

The quietness is uncanny after his nonstop shooting.

“I know where you are,” comes the reply “Do you think I can’t hear you?” and swinging the stick before him the other man trots over, dodging cabbages with the same casual agility he showed in fighting.  He climbs in beside her.  “All aboard!”  He’s barely out of breath, serene as someone arriving at a social event.

Jyn drags the sliding door shut and slams the locks home.  The engines fire up again immediately.  From the small porthole she sees another twenty Stormtroopers emerge from the orchard at a run, loading and firing; but the ship pitches and lifts and goes into a steep banking ascent, and their attack is left behind.  The deck judders and hull plates creak in the pull-push stress of g-forces.  The field, the orchard, soar away below; the white figures shrink to the size of farm animals, scattered papers, grains of rice.  Suddenly there’s the canal, curving through a smiling green landscape, and a last glimpse of Coronet City all pale gold stone and gleaming towers.  Jyn hangs on as the U-wing banks again and rockets skywards.  It feels like mere seconds till she sees the curve of the horizon as they break atmo. 

The hold is full of voices all talking at once suddenly, and her head is ringing again.  There’s crying and groans of pain, and K-2’s sarcastic tones ringing down cheerfully from the cockpit; and someone is saying “The Force protects me _through you_ , Baze, you know that.  It always does.”

She relaxes her arm at last, and sets the blaster down.  Her hand aches from gripping and firing.

The backpack is unnaturally heavy on her shoulder.  She fumbles with the straps and carefully, so carefully, slowly, so slowly, lets it slide to the deck.  She’s breathing.  The data is safe, and she’s still breathing.

She lets herself turn (so slowly, so carefully, because she feels as though she might break now this is over).  Allows herself to raise her eyes and look at the crowd in the hold, and look round for Cassian.

He’s there, right beside her still.  Already looking at her.  Dirt on his face and his hands a little shaky.  His eyes brilliant in the dim light of the hold. 

Bodhi’s voice, strained and weak but still alive, saying “I’m okay, I’ll be okay...”  But he is barely moving and there’s blood everywhere around him on the deck.

Tivik has his arms round May and is hanging on tight as she says “Oh peach, you made it, you made it!”

They are peripheral.  She can only see one thing.  Cassian’s eyes, Cassian’s eyes on hers. 

They made it.  _They made it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that was such a long one, but there really was no sensible place where I could break the flow of the action!


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of hurt/comfort for our protagonists after their ordeal...

The U-wing is not really equipped for passengers, it doesn’t have cabins or even bunks in the hold, but there is at least a fully-stocked med-kit.  Jyn sits slumped against the cold metal of the hull, waiting her turn to use it.  She aches and stings all over, and she’s weirdly tired, so that it’s an effort to catalogue the different sources of pain.  She gives up and sits it out.

The gunman and the ninja – Master Baze, Master Chirrut, she reminds herself dazedly of the hasty introductions – are tending to Bodhi.  His injuries are far worse than hers, he was in the thick of the fighting, he’s been hit at close range at least three times.  She cannot begrudge him having priority.  But it will be good just the same to get a painkiller, for all this – all this – _ugh_ – for her head (how did her head start hurting so much? - she didn’t hit her head when she fell) and some strapping for her ankle.  Yes, her ankle, she’s sprained that.  Or worse. 

She feels as though a bantha trod on her.  And why is she cold now, and so exhausted?

Kneeling beside her, Cassian reaches out and gently, hesitantly, takes her hand.  He says her name softly, like a question and a prayer in one.

She’s been so certain all day that they were going to die; and they’re alive.  She smiles and feels dizzy and shivery, and painfully shy; remembers everything that now will have to be said, that ten minutes ago they could have left unspoken and still have died in peace.  They will say these things, in time, she knows and hopes; _but not yet, not now, please, not while my head is still spinning with the noise and my leg feels like it’s is on fire_ …

She squeezes his hand.  She’d like simply to lay her head on his shoulder and sleep.

He lifts his other hand to her face, touches her temple.  Something there is tickling her and he brushes cautiously at it.  It hurts.  “Ah!  What the –“

“You’re bleeding,” Cassian says.

Bleeding?  Jyn peers down, expecting to see blood on her pants leg or seeping from her boot.  “No, no I’m not, it’s just a sprain.”

“No, you are, you’re bleeding here.”  He touches her face again and again there’s that dizzying pain.  She puts her own hand up beside his in confusion, and her fingers come away red.

“What the? – what’s that from?”

“I saw it hit you, I thought you’d been shot in the head but it just – it must have scraped right past you.  It’s taken off some hair and a – a bit of scalp.  You’re bleeding quite a lot.”

“Oh…”  So that’s why her head hurts. 

Now she’s aware of it, it hurts more, damn it.

“You fell,” he tells her.  “I thought I’d lost you.”  His voice is shaking.  “I knew I would have to keep my promise and I was trying to face the idea but it seemed so wrong that you were down, after everything, just one shot and bang – and - I knew I was going to die too.  Everything I’ve lived for is gone now, and then - to lose you too…  And then you moved.”

“I’m okay…” she says, wanting to reassure him.  She probably isn’t managing it ( _why am I so cold?)_ but he looks as if he’s near-crying with fear and shock and she owes him what comfort she can give, what little she has in her, she owes him, she always will...

“I couldn’t bear it.  I was numb.  I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.  You fell, Jyn, you fell and I –“ He swallows, looks over his shoulder, says firmly “Can we get a turn with that med-kit soon, please?  Jyn is hurt.”

Outside the porthole the streaks and swirls of hyperspace blur by, grey-blue, blue-white.   Inside, in the blueish light they cast, she watches as he commandeers the pack, searches it, takes out a hypo-spray, a pack of antiseptic wipes, a half-used tube of bacta gel.  “Hold still,” he tells her.

She wants, she needs, to get a grip.  He’s not the only one in shock, she realises with a vague sense of relief.   She sets her mind on him.  Focus on something other than her own shivering stinging body.  “Cassian.  Are you okay?”

“I – I don’t know.  I need to – think, to process what – what just happened…  Let me clean your head, there, that’s it, shh, I’ve got you…”  His hands are gentle.  The disinfectant stings more than the wound but she rolls with it; it’s a useful place to focus, a minor discomfort to distract from the full-blown pain of her leg and her burned scalp. 

She looks at Cassian and sees his dilated pupils, his too-fast breathing, his fingers quivering though he fights to still them.

“You’re in shock.” _  
_

“Well, that’s hardly surprising, is it?  Don’t fidget, let me get some of this on that burn.  I wonder if your hair will grow back?  You’re going to have a scar there.”

“Not my first.  You must have noticed.”

“Some, yeah…”  The bacta gel is cool and soothing, a miracle on his fingertips.  She sighs, lets herself melt against his unsteady touch.  He bites his lip.  “Your scars.  Yeah.  There’s one on your left knee and one on your side, and one on your hand, here…” He brushes her right hand gently.  “I tried to tell myself they were normal, but the one on your ribs always looked like a burn.”

“That’s because it is.”  Her teeth are chattering.  _Damn it, stop that_.  “Blaster burn.  Five years ago.   I was lucky it wasn’t three inches to the right.”

“Oh hells, Jyn...  How can you be okay with this, how do you cope with it? – I’m sorry, that’s a stupid question.   Stupid, crass, stupid of me…”  He picks up the hypo-spray and sets it down again, flexes his shaking hands and tries again.  “I never decided I was a pacifist or anything but I have never – never – Jyn, I killed two men.  I fired that blaster and shot them at point blank range.  And I’d do it again if I had to.  One of them was going to shoot you.  One of them was going to shoot me and Tiv.  I _had to_.  But now I’ve – I’ve killed someone.  I’ve taken a life.  I just – I don’t understand how to think about something like this.  And – the things I’ve seen, the destruction, that – what they did to Saw, everything, it’s all just, it’s –“  He’s adjusting the settings on the spray, slowly and very carefully.  He looks at her and changes the subject. “How – how strong do you need this?”

“About setting three should be enough, I think –“  She doesn’t want to keep gabbling like this but it keeps her mind on him if she keeps talking, she’s trying not to think about what he’s saying, him seeing himself like that, the scene in Belén Street, all of it - “and are there any of those foil blanket things, please?”  An emergency blanket would help both of them.  “Cassian – thank you for getting the one who was going to get me.  I didn’t even see that.  Thank you.”

She rolls her pants leg up awkwardly and lets him jab the hypo-spray into the skin of her calf.  Blessed numbing softness sweeps out from the pinprick contact and she sighs with relief.  At last she can start to undo her boot without wincing and whimpering at every movement.  Her fingers are clumsy on the laces but again it’s something to focus on.  _Focus, get a grip, be calm.  Be calm for him._

He’s watching her, still looking taut and pale.  She struggles for words of comfort for them both, and finds words that may be no comfort at all, but that are truthful at least.  “Cassian, listen.  I wish I could tell you it gets easier, but it may not.  I’ve lost count of how many people I’ve hurt, how many I’ve killed.  I’m sorry! – I know you don’t want to think about it right now.  But I won’t lie to you.  This may stay with you for a very long time.  But - if it was done in self-defence, and to defend people who weren’t able to save themselves, then you did the right thing and I am proud of you.”

“I felt sick when I saw what I’d done.”

“Good.  There are too many who don’t mind or don’t notice, who even take pleasure in killing.  You know you’re not like that.”  She carefully works the unlaced boot down off her foot and pulls the sock off after it.  _Focus on the now, let him help you, it’s giving Cassian something to focus on too_ , _focus on the – oh, shit…_   She stares at the massive bruising that appears.  _Ugh_ …  “Krif, I really did a number on myself there.”   It’s almost funny.  “All that shooting and I go and break an ankle on a fucking cabbage, for the love of life.”

Out of the blue next to her Tivik says “I never want to see another kriffing cabbage as long as I live.  Not see one, not taste one, not smell one, not ever.  And, Cass, man, stop kriffing overthinking this.”  

Cassian manages to pull a frail laugh out from somewhere inside himself.  “Yeah, I do do that, don’t I?”

“All the kriffing time, mate, all the kriffing time.”

“At least I’ve still got you to remind me not to be so overdramatic, eh?”

“Yeah, well.  Thanks for getting me out of there, mate.”  As Jyn twists round to look at him he is looking fondly up at Mayneta, and he says jokingly “And you never told me you could do all that stuff, Empress!  You were kriffing amazing!”

“I should hope so, I had enough training,” May says with an answering grin.  “After three years undercover I’m just glad it all came back to me.”

Cassian is wrapping something round her ankle now, heavy strapping that clings and supports and seems to push the pain back once again.  His hands work swiftly, passing around her leg in a steady rhythm, overlapping the bandages, taping the end down firmly. “Oh, Force alive, that feels good.”

He manages a small smile for her.  “I don’t think anything’s broken.”

“Thank you for – I would have got myself sorted out, you know, but thank you.  For helping me.”

He rummages one last time in the med-kit and produces a small package, unwraps it to shake out a sheet of silvery foil fabric.  Spreads it carefully over her, then sits down at her side, leans back against the hull, allows himself slowly to settle against her.  He’s still shaking very slightly; she imagines if she touched his throat she’d feel his pulse jumping like a mad sick thing. 

She pulls the blanket over him as well.  Cautiously he lifts an arm, making space for her, and she tucks herself gratefully in under his shoulder, lays the uninjured side of her sore head against his ribs.  They lean into one another, and there’s comfort beyond words in the solidity of him beside her.  She’s beginning to feel warm again at last, and the painkillers are spreading relief through her bloodstream.  Perhaps she can allow herself to sleep, since her body is still demanding it.  They’re going to be in flight for a while, after all…

“Is Bodhi going to be okay?” he asks after a moment.

Jyn glances over at the two strangers, and the captain, lying quietly on the deck between them.  They gave him a knock-out shot almost as soon as the ship was airborne.  Now the ninja is chanting softly over him while the gunman wipes blood from his face. “I hope so.”

The ship soars on into the nowhere-light of hyperspace.


	37. Chapter 37

He still doesn’t know where they’re going.  The Yavin system, Jyn had said at one point; back in the cellar below Tiv’s house, ten hours and a century ago.  But where is the Yavin system?  The teaching at the orphanage didn’t stretch to galactic geography.  He has no idea whether they’ll be travelling for a few hours or several days. 

Jyn doesn’t seem to care.  He hopes that’s a good sign.  Within a few minutes of getting the folds of the survival blanket wrapped around them both she had nuzzled her head down against his heart and fallen asleep.  When he looks down he can see her bloody scalp, smeared with greasy bacta, and the singed stripe through her hair; her closed eyes and the tip of her nose show above the edge of the fabric. 

He keeps his arms round her, cradling her close.  He has no idea what time it is, out here in space; but if Jyn wants to sleep, she shall sleep. 

He’s not remotely near to being tired.  There’s a rivet digging into his side and his back is paining him badly, all the half-healed cuts throbbing against the cold hull of the ship.  His mind whirls, a constant racing stream of images of death.  If he’d taken some sense-hyping drug he could not be more horribly, wildly alert, or see such nightmares even when he closes his eyes.

He has seen so much.  Too much.  Seeing has always been his refuge and his heaven, but now it’s betrayed him.  The things he’s seen today are hell.

Or yesterday, perhaps, by now.  It must be night, since almost everyone else is asleep.  Mayneta and Tiv are curled into one another like a pair of oversized loth-cats.  The burly man Baze is snoring very softly, spread out on the deck opposite the sliding door.  Beside him the captain lies very still, breathing lightly and fast, with the other emergency blanket wrapped around him. 

The blind man and the droid, apparently, are the ones in charge of flying the ship.  He tries not to think about the implications of that.

Jyn murmurs and makes a faint sound in the back of her nose.  Her hand tightens for a moment at his waist.  He stills his own breathing, looks down at her in wonderment as she settles again into the stillness of deep sleep.  She’s a fighting creature like something out of a folk-tale, and an exhausted woman sleeping under the protection of his thin arm.  It seems beyond belief, but here they are.

When he looks up again, it is to see Bodhi Rook is awake and watching them.  The dark eyes are wide, pupils dilated; whether from the pain or the analgesics, he can’t tell.

“How do you feel?” he asks softly.  He can’t just sit here and stare at the guy in silence, after all.

“Like I’ve been shot.  Several times.”  Bodhi grins weakly.  “Who’s in the cockpit?”

“Your murder droid.”

“Ah.  Good.” 

It isn’t Cassian’s idea of good, but evidently the droid is a competent pilot.

“The blind guy is with him.” He tries for a light tone. “I hope it’s not him doing the flying…”

Bodhi shakes his head.  “Navigation.”

There’s a pause while Cassian wishes he hadn’t invited that joke. 

“How about you?” Bodhi whispers.  “You okay?”

“I – I’m not sure.  I wasn’t hit, but…”  It might help to talk about it, he tells himself.  “I’ve never seen things like - I have no frame of reference for any of this.  That display of bodies, Force alive…”  Already it’s the thing that haunts him most, almost more even than having taken a life.  Jyn is right, he had to shoot, to save himself, and her, and Tiv.  But the brutality of that scene in the ruins of Belén Street haunts him. “I’ve never heard of anything like that before!”

Bodhi’s jaw tightens.  “I have.  It’s an unusual gesture, but by no means unique.  The Empire destroyed an entire city two days ago.  They’re more than willing to make direct demonstrations of power.  When they deem it proper.  Appropriate.  To get the point across.”

“A _whole city_?  How? – where?”

“NiJedha.  My – my hometown, in fact.”  His face is bleakly desolate.

Cassian stares.  Nothing feels adequate, neither words nor thoughts, in the face of that.  “I’m so sorry,” he whispers at last

There’s a pause before Bodhi goes on, starting to speak faster.  “It was the planet-killer.  The secret weapon, the thing all this was about.  We have to stop it, we have to –“

“Yes.”  He’d like to be able to touch the man, embrace him even; he would reach out if it didn’t mean disturbing Jyn.  It seems wrong to have nothing to offer, to console that desperate voice. 

Bodhi no longer looks like a spy, a practised and cool-headed agent of the rebels.  It’s hard to believe he was shooting to kill just a few hours ago; was coldly issuing and executing orders; was working undercover a day or two before that with a polite professional smile on his face.  He’s an unhealthy grey colour now and there are tears trickling from the corners of his eyes.  “I’ve screwed everything up,” he says in a hiss of pain. “I should have been quicker, I should have brought this whole mission to a conclusion weeks ago.  It’s all my fault.”

“No, no it isn’t.  It can’t be.  You’ve been doing your job, you’ve done your best.  You got the plans you wanted in the end, didn’t you?  Everything always looks different in hindsight.”

A tiny sob, almost completely stifled.  “Yeah, right, I know that rationally, but...  It was my whole family, my home, everything…”  He twitches his head towards the sleeping man at his side. “It was their home too, you know.  Master Baze, Master Chirrut.  They’re my Masters.  They trained me, they’ve taught me everything since I was a boy, they brought me in to the Alliance.  They’ve given their whole lives to the cause and now this.  Everything.  We’ve all lost everything.”

“I’m sorry…”  How feeble _sorry_ sounds, no matter that the regret and grief behind it are sincere.

There’s a faint sound from the direction of the cockpit and he turns his head.  The blind man has climbed down and is facing them.  The droid doesn’t look round; it carries on flying the ship calmly, operating solo now. 

Master Chirrut.  Unnerving milk-blue eyes, like opals in the darkness. 

The man flicks his staff side to side, touches a couple of surfaces and is still again, as if those two soundings are all he requires.  He inclines his head down, almost as if to look at Bodhi.  “If I am your Master, why are you such a troublesome student?”

“Me?”  The captain turns his big eyes up; his face softens, a ghost of warmer feeling showing.  “Like teacher, like pupil, maybe?  I’m sorry for disturbing you, Master Chirrut.”

Chirrut kneels beside him, lays his staff down silently.  “You cannot disturb those who love.  But you need to rest; you have been awake for far too long.  And _you_ –“ he looks directly at Cassian suddenly – “You must learn how to _stay_ awake.”

“I’ll try,” he says.  It’s a fair observation, after all.  Part of him would like nothing more right now than to return to his old state of sleep, to his unseeing happiness.  It seems fair that it’s a blind man reminding him he used to see beauty and nothing more.

He knows the old Cassian would have been shocked and grieved if he’d heard reports on the news channel of terrorists setting off a bomb in Old Town or a smugglers’ ship brought down after a shoot-out near Tambira.  He would have said _oh how dreadful_.  But he wouldn’t have looked any closer.  Wouldn’t have cared.  Wouldn’t have _seen_.

These people would still have been fighting for his freedom, and dying for it.  And Jyn would have died with them, in one of those fights or the other.

Master Chirrut is smiling again.  “I knew a Master once who would say there is no trying –“

“- only doing.”  Bodhi completes the adage with a faint grin of his own.  “Yes, so you’ve often said.  What was it?  ‘Do fast or do slow, but do, until you are a Master; there is no try’…”

Cassian feels his own lips quirk.  “If I’m not allowed to say I’ll try, is it okay if I say I’ll do my best?”

“But that, you already do.”  Master Chirrut turns that serene look on him.  “Always, the best of you.  Even when your eyes were as blind as mine, your sight was with the Force.”

He’s not sure what to make of that.  “Well, I don’t expect to be a master of anything.  I’ve lost the only thing I’m any good at.  I’ve lost everything.  We all have, haven’t we?  But you saved our lives.  We can start again, somehow, can’t we?”

He’s trying to keep his voice as low as possible, but Jyn stirs again and he’s glad to turn his attention to her.  He strokes her filthy hair and hushes her softly, bends his head close to hers, hearing her breathing grow steady again.  It’s as though his nearness comforts her as much as hers does him. 

He lets himself hold her tight for a moment.  She smells of sweat and bacta and blaster residue.  Her arm grips around his body in response but she doesn’t wake. 

“Start again…” Bodhi murmurs.  “What do you plan to do?  K may joke about you being a real rebel now, but you need to understand, there’s no going back.”

“I know.  I shot two men in the head.  How can I pretend I’ll ever be the same person after that?”  Cassian sighs, struggling for words, one hand stilling in Jyn’s bloodied hair.  “I’ve tried to avoid looking at the real world for so long, to avoid looking at the things around me, and the things I was afraid of, the places I’ve crawled out of.  But in the end it’s all caught up with me.  You’re right, I was blind, I was asleep.  I didn’t look, I didn’t fight back, I just retreated and accepted things I was too scared to look at.  The orphanage taught me that obedience meant safety and safety mattered more than anything else.  I forgot the things my mother and father died for!  I just wanted a life that wouldn’t hurt me again.”  His voice is tensing and he stops, breathes, tries to quieten his racing heart.  “All I had was my drawing.  It gave me a refuge and it – it pleased people, it meant I could do something that made people happy.  But now I don’t even have that.  Every painting, every sketchbook I’ve ever had, it’s all gone!  And what sort of work is there going to be for an artist in the rebellion?  It was the one good thing I could do in this life, and it’s been taken from me.”

He’s been trying not to face it, but it hits home with the finality of those blaster bolts smacking into the dead men in front of him on the levee.  All he has left now is his life.

“That’s what the Empire does,” Bodhi whispers.  “It _takes_.”  His frown deepens and twists.  “I’m sorry.  I never saw any of your work.  Jyn said you were good.”

“Maybe I was.”  He looks down at her sleeping face, shut and exhausted.  All either one of them has left is the life in their bones.  “Does it matter?  Did I ever really see anything that was worth seeing?  I just don’t know anymore.”

“Where we’re going, our HQ, if there’s anything useful for you to do, they’ll find you work.  We don’t waste resources.  There’ll be something; logistics, comms work, ground support, I promise you.”

It sounds as though it’s meant to be comforting.  He smiles at the intention, at the wounded man in front of him.  “That’s good.  I’d like to be of some value.”

“What you are and what you have seen are of great value,” says Chirrut calmly.  “Now that your eyes are open, it matters not that you learned to see in blindness.”

There’s not much he can say to that. 

He leans back, still cradling Jyn, and closes his eyes; and faces the memory of what he’s seen, faces it and stares back at it, until at last sleep comes.


	38. Chapter 38

Their destination turns out to be a world shrouded in trees; rainforest at the equator, cloud-forest and woodlands to north and south, dark seas of conifers fringing its two silvery ice-caps.  As the U-wing approaches the edge of the atmosphere, the curve of the planet hangs below them like an unblinking green eye.

They come in flying low, skimming over the treetops of the subtropical forest. 

There is no sign of this rebel base, only jungle; acre upon acre of vibrant green, alive with birds, decked with scarlet-flowering creepers.  Cassian stares out at the thick canopy of trees and wonders how in all the hells they are going to land in this. 

Then the ship banks and swings round, and suddenly towers appear, rising one by one through the forest canopy, and a whole complex of buildings opens out below them, ruined, semi-ruined, patched into stability.  Conical ziggurats, step pyramids, pillared halls crowned with parapets and crumbling cupolas; all spread round a wide, half-cleared plaza.  The lush jungle encroaches on every side, but the bulk of the plaza has been concreted over, and a couple of small spacecraft can be seen half hidden away in hangars. 

K-2SO pilots the U-wing neatly down and lands near the largest of the pillared temples.

The hold door slides open on an auto-release as soon as they hit the ground, and Master Baze leaps onto the stained concrete outside, shouting to a distant group of figures “Get a medic!  We need a stretcher team here!”

“Belay that.”  K-2 has already finished shutting down the engines; it stalks into the main cabin and bends low to scoop Bodhi up in its arms.  “ ** _I_** will take the Captain to med-bay.”

“Thank you, old friend…”

“Don’t bump him,” says Chirrut gently.  Then “Baze – the Force is hardly moving at all out there.  It’s as if there is no life here.  Tell me what you see…”

“Place is almost deserted.”  Two figures in grimy flash vests and overalls are hurrying towards the ship with a fuel line and Baze shouts to them “Where is everybody?”

One of the ground crew glances his way and replies “Scarif” in a tone that suggests that one word ought to say everything.  Slumped in the droid’s arms Bodhi Rook groans quietly. 

It means nothing to Cassian, but “He said that as if it was _bad_ ,” remarks K-2.  “That’s where the Imperial Data Vault is, isn’t it, Bodhi?”  It swings its head to snap at the crewmen “You!  What’s happening at Scarif?”

The two men ignore him.  They appear to be readying the ship for a rapid turn-around.  K-2 stares at them for a moment and then gives a faint grinding sound that resembles a sigh and turns to stalk away across the runway, carrying the captain like a sick child. 

One by one the group climb down from the hold to follow him.  Cassian and Jyn bring up the rear, slower than the rest as she limps, leaning on him heavily.

The buildings around the plaza are huge, their crests towering above the surrounding jungle.  The air is humid and beneath the stink of benzene from the refuelling line there is a pervasive odour of damp; damp stone, damp leaves, damp dark places and rotting things.  But after almost a day in space it feels good just to breathe air that isn’t recycled.

The sun angles low over the treetops and casts long sweeps of shadow from the pyramids and towers; beneath the trees it is already evening.

They come to the mouth of a vast hangar where a handful of personnel in fatigues and unmatched uniforms are working.  K-2 tries to stamp through the group but is stopped; a sharp-faced man with sandy-red hair plants himself in the droid’s path and says crisply “Captain Rook, we’ve been expecting you daily” and then rather less crisply as Mayneta steps between them “ _Lieutenant Marwani_?”

“Sir.”

“I wasn’t aware you had been recalled.”

“Decision in the field, sir.  General Draven, we have urgent intel to report to the Council.”

“Understood, but this is not a convenient time to call a Council meeting –“

“General, Captain Rook has obtained the plans to the Death Star.”

Less than half an hour later, they are all in a small chamber inside one of the pyramids.

**

Cassian is pretty sure no-one expected him, Jyn and Tivik still to be there.  It’s clear this is an important meeting and here they are, three nobodies, hanging around, listening in.  He hadn’t expected the Rebel Alliance to be so casual about security; but nobody gave them any alternative place to go, and in this near-deserted warren of ruins they stuck with K-2SO and Bodhi, and the Guardians, and Mayneta (and he wonders how long it will take him to get used to her as _Lieutenant Marwani;_ heavens, how long it will take Tiv…). 

The room is poorly lit; the only strong illumination comes from a large projector console in the middle.  Humming conduits and cables are snagged on hooks and pins in the damp granite walls and a line of chairs has been pushed back from the central area of the floor.  The atmosphere is stifling.  The few staff in attendance work quietly, keeping out of the way.  They seem absorbed in their tasks though most are visibly sweating in the oppressive humidity.  After the steady racing fear of the last few days and the hours of exhaustion in the U-wing, the air of calm seems unnatural.  It’s some time before he realises it is exactly that.  Every one of these people is holding themselves back with an iron self-control.  No-one has offered so much as a smile or a word of greeting.

_And to think I allowed myself to imagine we might arrive and be welcomed here._

Someone has brought a seat up for Bodhi, so that he can stay as long as required before going to seek help from a med-bay. 

The debriefing is a steady stream of questions punctuated by occasional tense silences.  It reminds Cassian of a police interrogation out of a holo-novela.  The man May called General Draven, another older man with impatient eyes and a grey beard, and a tall woman in white pass the roles of bully, kindly one and quiet one between them.   Bodhi answers wearily, May crisply and with a touch of asperity; K-2, with more than a touch.

Jyn had handed over the data disk as soon as they arrived and it was hurried away by a grey-clad staffer while the questioning went on.  He watches her stare in disbelief at the door after it closes.  All their fear and pain, the struggle to get here at all, the horrors they’ve seen; and now the fruit of their efforts is whisked out of sight like something to be dealt-with later.

He isn’t really following the topics being discussed, but it’s clear some of the lines of questioning are disturbing, some of the subjects intense.  He’s startled and angered to see Bodhi Rook close to tears after a time.  K-2 has been looming behind the Captain’s seat protectively, one huge hand resting on his shoulder, and now it stiffens, rearing its ugly head forward as if to confront anyone upsetting him. 

Cassian begins trying to listen.  There’s an electrical hum, soft and constant in the background, and the older man’s voice in particular is often masked by it.  He hears May say loudly and in tones of real grief “But – Melshi and the rest of them – the rogues – Melshi’s a capable officer, Sefla too, you said most of the men who went were spec forces, surely they –“

The woman in white shakes her head.  “Nothing.  We believe they must have succeeded in penetrating the data vault, given the extreme nature of the response.  But with an unsanctioned mission like this communications were bound to be poor.  There was a garbled transmission coming through right before the battle station attacked but we were unable to make sense of it before it broke off.”  She pauses as if steeling herself to go on.  In front of her, Bodhi has sunk forward in his seat with his head in his hands.  “The Empire chose to destroy their own base sooner than allow it to be compromised,” she says.  “None of Melshi’s people has been heard from.  We presume they all perished.”

Mayneta bows her head in silence.

“You grieve for your friends, Lieutenant, but this is a disaster of monumental proportions for the rebellion as a whole.”  It’s the sharp-faced man speaking now.  General Draven, May had called him.  “Admiral Raddus and the second fleet gave support as soon as we realised what was happening, but they were unable to get through the planetary shield gate.  Most of the van of the fleet was lost, including _Profundity_ and the entirety of Blue Squadron.  General Merrick is missing in action, likewise Admiral Raddus and his senior staff.  Some or all of them may have been taken captive; we know for a fact that Senator Leia Organa was taken prisoner.  The Council has dispersed in utter chaos.” 

“The likelihood is that we’ll never achieve a consensus amongst our supporters again,” says the woman in white bleakly.

Jyn is swaying beside him, her face a mask of despair.  Tivik looks as bewildered and horrified as he feels.  They’ve been running to reach a promise of safety, and found themselves instead arriving like flotsam after a wreck, washed up among bitter people speaking of disaster. 

“We’ve mobilised a rescue effort to look for survivors,” Draven goes on.  “Pick up escape pods and so on.  We’ll get as many people out as we can.  But the loss of life is terrible, and we can only guess at the long-term benefits for Imperial Intelligence of taking such high-ranking captives.  You of all people know how brutally effective their interrogation methods are.”

Bodhi is openly weeping now.  K-2 and Master Chirrut flank him impassively, staring at - or through - his questioners, while May and Master Baze look grim, ready to crack skulls with their bare hands. 

“This is only the beginning,” says Chirrut.  “You will need to prepare for the darkness now.”

“We are not ready for open war!”  The woman in white, her grave voice almost overwhelmed for a moment.

“What is readiness, but the true understanding of what _is_?”  The blind man’s face is coldly serene.  “You are ready, Commander Mothma, no matter what your fears tell you.  The Force of Others will be with you.”

“I hope you’re right, Master Chirrut, but it’s hard to believe in hope or the Force in the face of a disaster like this.”

“Nonetheless, brightness approaches from within the dark.”

A light winks on the illuminated table and the three interrogators bend to check an incoming message.  The woman looks up after a moment.  For the first time, suddenly, she is smiling faintly.  “The data you brought us has been confirmed as the battle station plans.  Detailed analysis is now underway.  Congratulations on a successful mission, Captain.”

Bodhi is shaking his head.  “I did too little, too late.” 

“No.  This is the first hopeful news we’ve had in days.  Thank you.”  She turns and looks gravely across the room at Cassian and his companions.  “Thank you all.”

The bearded General  speaks briskly into the momentary hush.  “Captain Rook, do you have any photographic evidence of the atrocities you claim to have witnessed on Corellia?”

“No, sir.  We were in a hurry, and trying not to stand out.  I didn’t even think of getting pictures.”

“K-2SO?”

“I wasn’t there,” the droid says tartly. “General Dodonna,  I hope you’re going to hurry up with this debrief.  Captain Rook should be in med-bay now.”

“Hush, K…”

“You didn’t see it, then?” Dodonna repeats.  “The dead partisans hung in the street?”

Beside Cassian, Jyn has been biting her lip, and now abruptly she raises her voice.  “Are you suggesting we _invented this_?”  She draws herself up and limps forward to the console, thumping both hands down on the surface.  “I just saw my friends - my _family_ \- tied to a gibbet in the public street for a show!  We all saw it, all three of us!  Why would we _make this up_?”  She glares round the table at the three startled faces.  “And why the _hells_ are you wasting time picking Bodhi’s report to pieces, when you should be planning your attack on the Death Star before it’s too late?”

Cassian is already stepping up to her side.  He lays a hand on her shoulder and feels her shaking with emotion.  “It’s true,” he says quickly, more to support her than to convince them.  “We all saw it.”

The woman in white – Commander Mothma, did Chirrut say? – has regained her composure already.  “Nobody is doubting your word.  What General Dodonna meant to say is that it’s a shame we don’t have visual evidence of this.  The violation of the dead is considered a war crime and this story could have been used in a court of law.”

Jyn draws in a sharp breath, tensing herself to speak again; and the bearded General adds “It would also have had considerable propaganda value.”

“Is that all their deaths are worth to you?  A missed photo-opportunity?”  Jyn is shouting, suddenly almost hysterical.  Then, as suddenly, she deflates.  The strength goes from her back and he sees her face go dead, all emotion shutting off.  Her gaze drops to the floor as she withdraws in on herself.  “Isn’t it enough that we saw it?” she says faintly after a moment.  “I can describe every detail…”

Dodonna ignores the tell-tale flatness of her voice.  “Eyewitness statements are potent but they have nowhere near the power of a good, strong image.”

Cassian says “You want an image?”  Jyn is trembling perceptibly under his hand and he knows how close she is to breaking down.  He has seldom felt so angry.  After everything she’s had to do and see, everything she’s given up to get them their fucking plans, **_this_** …  “Someone give me a data-pad with drawing software, I’ll give you your image!”


	39. Chapter 39

Jyn’s mind is a tumbled stone in a box, a dead thing; cold, locked, iron.  She stares in, and sees an insanity of fighting and fear and brief moments of sleep, of running in the shadows, crouching in the dark, waiting for the next death, the next nightmare moment.  And now she is here, among strangers, watching Cassian again; Cassian drawing with total absorption, as if nothing has changed and the night never was, and they will work in his studio tomorrow, in the sun.   

He’s live-wired the data-pad into the console table’s projector system and every line and wash of colour he executes is appearing there as well as on the small pad in his hand.  He works fast, watching the main projection, barely glancing at his hands as they move. 

The image of Belén Street as it once was is growing rapidly.  His fingers flicker back-and-forth on the touch-screen. 

Jyn’s leg aches, her head throbs, but she watches and does not want to stop.  Stares at the drawing, at Cassian working.  He draws as though in a trance, and she is mesmerised. 

It’s the only time she’s seen him draw on a screen rather than on paper. 

He enlarges a section, sketches in details, contracts it with another finger-stroke and moves on, does the same again for another section.  He’s building up the image in alternating macrocosm and microcosm, broad strokes and fine lines; and it’s all there, the tall houses, the shop-fronts, the sunlight and shadows, the broad strip of blue above and the light and space further down at the end of the street where the quayside opened out. 

Home.

“I hope you’re recording this,” Cassian says after a few minutes.  There’s a murmur of assent from Mothma and he nods in acknowledgement.  “This is Belén Street,” he says, still drawing, never stopping.  “It’s one of a series of parallel streets in Old Town.  Working class, a little bit rough, but a real community, I think.  You could see the buildings were a couple of hundred years old at least.  They had these stone balustrades on the roofs and carving round the windows, like this –“ He looks quickly round at the watching faces; says “You’d probably call it _atmospheric_ ” with the faintest sting in his voice.  His fingers dance over a tiny close-up, and draw a window-frame so familiar she wants to cry at the sight.  There’s a vase in the window, a curtain drifting in the breeze.

He carries on drawing, talking his audience through the things he’s showing them. “Shops at street level.  I remember there was a bakery, a green-grocer, a ships’ chandlers at the far end…  This one here was Saw Gerrera’s store – it had a big old-fashioned plate window, a display of suits and jackets and shirts, on dummies that didn’t match.  There were hats hanging down from above on long ribbons.  The window had this curly woodwork around the top of the frame, it was really beautiful, a period piece.”  He stops drawing for a second to glance at her; says sadly “I didn’t know when I first went there that it was also the headquarters of the Corellian Partisans.”   

Jyn holds his eyes for a moment before looking away.  He’s remaking her world in front of her, and she isn’t sure if she can trust herself to speak. 

He brings up the drawing of the shop-front into a high enlargement and deftly, neatly, writes in the lettering above the door.

 _Tailors and Gentlemen’s Outfitters_. _Saw Gerrera, Prop.  Your style is our speciality._

Jyn swallows hard, makes herself go on watching.  All the sights she walked past every day, all those years, and he went there just three times; and he’s recreated it perfectly.

“This is Belén Street as it used to be,” Cassian says.  “As far as I know, all these buildings were occupied above the shops.”  He turns to her again for confirmation, and she masters herself enough to nod and say

“Yes, all inhabited.  Tenement housing, multiple families on each floor.”

“Do you have all that recorded?” Cassian asks again.  “Good.  Okay – now –“

With a sweep of his hand he obliterates almost half the drawing, wiping out Saw’s building and its neighbours in a single stroke.

Mothma gasps audibly.  It’s theatre, and horribly effective.  Jyn feels tears start in her eyes. 

“This is Belén Street now.”  He starts drawing again, and falls silent, utterly focussed on his work. 

Where the houses once stood, he draws in the vast, smouldering hole that was all that was left.  Edges it with broken walls, their blackened teeth of masonry and timber rearing up against the spring sky.  Rubble cascading into the street, blocking the road entirely.  Broken windows opposite, shops destroyed along almost the entire road.  “You can see,” Cassian says at length “how total the destruction was.  I’m pretty sure every house on this side had been burned out.  I couldn’t see a single intact window in the whole block.  There were still ashes falling in the air, several hours later.  And the bodies –“  He hesitates for a moment and then visibly steels himself to do this.  “The bodies were here.”

He begins on the right, with Moroff.  Then Beezer.  Sketches in their slumped forms, the dead weight of them hanging there; the lolling heads, Beezer’s slack lekku, the stump of the Gigoran’s ripped-off arm.  Glances up at her for a second before adding the bloodstains.  Huge, spreading, there’d been so much blood, how much blood could a body shed... 

He draws Edrio, enlarging the screen section to work picking out fine details.  The Tognath’s features revealed in death, the torn-off mask hanging down; the bulging dead eyes, the poignancy of his fragile mouthparts exposed to the air.  Glances at Jyn again.  “I’m sorry…”

“No, you have to do this.  It’s right that you do.”

Her voice sounds as though she’s swallowed a rock.

“Do we know their names?” says General Dodonna.

Jyn has to take a couple of deep breaths before she can make herself speak again.  “The Gigoran was called Moroff, he was a mercenary but he’d stuck with us for several years, I think he enjoyed hitting the Empire as much as getting paid to do it.”  Another breath.  _Keep speaking, you can do this.  Say their names_ …  “Beezer Fortuna was with us for as long as I can remember.  He was just – always there.  Edrio, that’s Edrio – we called him Two-tubes behind his back.  He wore a breathing apparatus.  He was always complaining about things but he wasn’t unkind.  Just grumpy.  He was Saw’s right-hand man.”

Cassian has roughed in the next figure and she chokes, manages to say “Saw…” again and has to break off. 

Saw.  Broken and battered, his pressurised suit of armour blasted apart.  One of his artificial legs trails on the ground, servos shattered and broken, its framework still partly attached to the stump.  The other has been torn away altogether.  Scarlet blood splashed across his broad chest and dripping from his hands, blood in the wild, dirty hair.  The face she’d last seen glaring and despairing now empty of all expression, heavy eyelids closed forever.  She breathes and makes herself look and go on looking, because this must be faced and hiding from it will not make it any less; breathes, and lets the tears come.  It hurts more to hold them in. 

Her voice shakes up and down an octave as she pushes a few more words out.  “Saw Gerrera adopted me when my – when my mother died.  I was eight.  He raised me, he trained me.  Sometimes I hated him, but - he was my papa - I –“ it’s no good, she can’t go on.  Her face is wet, her nose starting to run.  She blots them both on her dirty sleeve and stifles the urge to whimper like a child.

Cassian watches her, waits, then speaks into the pause.

“I only met Saw Gerrera a couple of times.  It was like talking to all the anger against the Empire I’ve ever seen, all of it condensed down into one human body.  He was a disabled old man, I would have thought he could honourably have lived in peace at his age.  But he was implacable.  He terrified me but I have never met a more determined man.”

He starts drawing again.  The stumpy body of a Talpini.  She hadn’t noticed, but he had, that Weeteef, alone of the victims in the display, had been not tied to the trestle but nailed to it.  Jyn sobs and Cassian looks her way for a second before continuing to draw.

“Jyn told me this guy was called Weeteef.  I don’t know his family name.  It’s hard to see here but – I think he was quite old…”

Jyn nods shakily.  Makes herself say “He used to talk about his grandchildren.”

One final figure is appearing in the drawing, Cassian’s hand moving to sketch them in, his touch almost tender; and she feels another wave of tears at the sight of those coltish limbs, the downturned face under its bedraggled fair hair.  “That’s Hugh.  He never hurt a bug.  He was a civilian. He was about ten, I think.  Lived next door.  So he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”  Another sob wrenches her throat and she says “He was planning to be a pharmacist when he grew up.  He just wanted to go to school and do something useful with his life…” 

Cassian is touching in a few final details.  The whole of the console-top projector screen is now taken up with an image over six feet across, of the destruction of Belén Street, and the show of death in its ruins.  In the front, that vile, mean noticeboard flaunts its message to all viewers: _Traitors to the Empire._

He clicks _Save_ and throws the data-pad down on the edge of the screen; turns to Jyn, saying over her shoulder “There you are, you’ve got what you wanted now.  That’s what we saw.” 

She lets herself cling to him.  Hears him murmur “I’m sorry, Jyn, I’m so sorry” as he embraces her.

“No, it’s okay,” she whispers.  “Saw would have wanted this.”

“Well,” says Mon Mothma into the silence.  “I think we have our image now, General.  And perhaps our first Official War Artist as well…”

Dodonna seems unconvinced.  “Captain Rook!  Can you tell us if this is accurate?”

Jyn raises her head, incredulous.

Bodhi is silent, staring.  He jolts at the sound of his name and tears himself away from the image.  His voice is very faint when he speaks. “Yes, sir.  It’s – it’s accurate.  It’s terrifyingly accurate.  It’s – I – I can’t –“  Suddenly there are tears in his eyes.  He covers his face. 

K-2 moves forward, calm, almost stately, and lays a steel fist on the table top.  “I am taking Captain Rook to med-bay now.  Please don’t bother trying to stop me.”

He lifts Bodhi and stalks out of the briefing room, carrying his shaking master tenderly.


	40. Chapter 40

“You ought to get that ankle looked at,” Cassian tells her. “Come on” and he steers them both in K’s wake.  When she glances round she sees the others are following.  Mayneta glares at an officer by the door and he steps back.  No-one else tries to stop them.

The atmosphere in the med-bay is subdued, and the whole place is strangely overcrowded.  There seem to be a huge number of nursing staff and doctors and droids, hanging around, just waiting.  A small team descends on Bodhi.  Within minutes his injuries have been assessed and he is being hurried into surgery.  Others gather the rest of the group up, checking them over and assigning them quickly to triage beds.

It’s almost a relief to be taken in hand.  Jyn’s head is sore, her ankle throbbing inside its roughly-fastened bandages.  Standing upright for the last two hours probably wasn’t the best thing to do. 

One of the 2-1Bs gets her settled, sitting on a wheeled bed with her leg plunged knee-deep in a portable bacta tank.  It sets to work examining her burned scalp painstakingly.  In the next bed another droid has Cassian stripped to the waist and lying down; it checks over his back carefully, applying narrow strips of gel-patch to the un-scabbed cuts.  Further off she can see Mayneta and Tivik are also being checked for injuries.  K-2 hovers by the doorway Bodhi was taken through, and the two Guardians have sat down at his side.  They seem calm, hand in hand, waiting together.

“It’s good of you to treat us when we’re not Alliance personnel,” she says to the droid.  Its durasteel digits are cold and precise on her skin and she winces, trying not to jerk away as it cleans and probes the wound.

“We are medics,” the 2-1B says coolly.  “This is our job.”  It pulls at something stuck to the burn and despite herself she yelps in pain.  “I am sorry, but there are significant quantities of soil particles and plant material in your injury and it is important to remove these contaminants.  I will increase the level of analgesia if you are experiencing unpleasant levels of discomfort.” 

She nods.  “Yeah, you do that.  Please.”  He squirts numb-spray over the wound without responding and goes on working.

The neighbouring droid has finished with Cassian and hands him back his blood-stained shirt.  “You will have some minor scarring, sir, but there is no lasting structural damage.”

“That’s good to know.  Thank you.”

Jyn watches him sit up cautiously. 

It’s good to have him close by, to be able to reassure herself at a glance that he’s still there.  Too much has been ripped-up and lost, too many people left behind, this last few days.  Too much has happened altogether; and there’s no guiding hand now, no authority giving the orders.  She can no longer transfer responsibility for her actions, blame anyone else for things that hurt.  _I have to look at my own life, for myself, now, I can’t lay everything at Saw’s feet anymore._

Saw…  Watching the recreation of Saw’s last stand had been agony.  But it was what he would have wanted.  His death would still serve one final purpose in the fight against the Empire and Saw would have been glad of it.  That man Dodonna was right, the simple horror of that scene would be shocking to anyone.  It could say _This is what the Empire does_ more clearly than any number of soberly-written news reports.  As for Galen; she’s still not sure if she has the strength to think about her father, dying alone, sending out his last message, his last desperate hope in the hands of a stranger.  His life, his work, his despair; all those memories and struggles and lies... 

_But there is this at least._   They got the data. _We did it, Papa.  We can finish your revenge.  I promise you, it won’t all have been in vain…_

Cassian catches her eye as his head emerges through the neck of the shirt.  His lips curve into a hesitant smile. 

“Why are there so many people just standing around?” he asks.

“I don’t know.”

The cadre had never had the luxury of multiple medics, much less a supply of med-droids and good modern equipment.  This place certainly seems overstaffed to her, but she’d assumed that it was normal.  She has to agree it’s odd how many of them aren’t really doing anything. 

“It’s standard protocol in the event of a military engagement for all med-personnel to be activated.”  the droid tells them.  “We have been on stand-by for incoming casualties for the past forty-eight hours, though so far there have been relatively few arrivals.  It would appear that many ships have been lost with all hands.  It’s particularly disheartening for my sentient colleagues who are attempting to remain hopeful while they wait.  All any of us want is to help patients, but at present there are none save yourselves.”  He peers closely at her scalp, cranking his visual circuits to high magnification.  “I can see no further contamination.  I have injected bacta and applied a sealant to protect the healing skin.  This must remain in place for three to four days to ensure maximum benefit.  Please do not wash your hair or go swimming until then.”

“I won’t,” she promises.   It nods mechanically and glides away.

Mayneta comes strolling over, sporting strapping round her injured lek and a shiny gel-patch on her upper arm.  Tivik trails up in her wake, looking exhausted and shell-shocked, and flops on the end of Cassian’s bed.  He’s still wearing the pyjamas and bathrobe and his bare feet are filthy.  May thumps down beside him with a sigh and wraps her unhurt arm round his shoulders.  Cassian meets Jyn’s eyes and she lets herself reach out for him; next moment he’s slid off his own bed and joined her.  She hugs him, leans gratefully into his side again.

“What’s gonna happen to us all?” Tiv asks.  “Do you s’pose we’ll be assigned quarters, or what?  They’re not gonna want us taking up kriffing hospital beds in the middle of a war, after all…”

Mayneta shrugs.  Her handsome face is sad and tired.  “I don’t know, I never brought civilians in from a mission before.  There’ll be some kind of –“  She breaks off, looking round sharply.  Behind her, across the room Chirrut has suddenly stood up with a wordless shout. 

He swings his staff gently, as if sounding out the air with it.  Next moment Master Baze is also on his feet.  The big man grabs his companion’s arm.  “Chirrut!”

“Baze.  You felt that?”

“Yes.  Even I felt that.”

“Someone has come – a brightness out of darkness, someone is here, they are here –“

“Yes, I feel it too.”

Chirrut gasps again, smiling as if with pleasure; breathlessly, he begins to pray.  “The Force is with us, we are one with the Force!  We will fear nothing, all is as the Force wills!”

The double doors slide open and doctors and med-droids run forward to assist as a stream of casualties pours into the med-bay. 

The wounded come in in waves, wearing stained, tattered uniforms and flight suits, grey-green and brown, orange and scarlet and light blue; groups of human men and women, and sentients of half a dozen races.  Bothan, Mon Calamari, Sullustian and Twi’lek, a Lasat, even a couple of Gungans.  Twenty, thirty, fifty people, another crowd outside waiting patiently to get in.  There must be almost a hundred of them altogether. 

Most are walking wounded, limping and battered but alert; some of them are helping one another along while a few lie slumped on stretchers borne by panting figures in the same flash vests as the ground crew from the hangar.  Several Mon Calamari are carrying themselves like an honour guard around one of the stretchers where another of their kind lies bloody and grey-faced, forelimbs trailing.  A medic reaches them and gives a yell for assistance.  Moments later the patient is hurried through into surgery.

Chirrut and Baze have stepped back out of the way of all this sudden activity but they remain standing, waiting, at the side of the stream of incoming patients.  The blind man is trembling visibly and his partner steadies him from behind.  They are both breathing fast, as if in fear or excitement.

“Survivors, thank the Force,”  Mayneta says, looking at the mass of wounded personnel.  Her voice is emotional and she smiles broadly, showing her teeth.  “How the hells Admiral Raddus made it out I’d love to know.  After what Draven said, and the things that droid was saying to you, I was afraid it must have been a massacre.”  The last of the crowd is shuffling in and she breaks off and stares, as towards the back a little huddle of figures come walking together, separate from the rest.  

There’s a handsome angry man in front, apparently unhurt but waving his arms and ranting at a Wookiee, then a middle-aged couple with their arms around one another, both of them in blood-stained clothing, their faces staring and shell-shocked.  Helping are them a young man and a girl, barely out of their teens and dressed in filthy white clothes, and a pair of agitated droids. 

Right at the back comes an elderly bearded man in a brown robe, cradling an injured arm and walking with his head down, like one near-stunned.  He slows to a stop just inside the doorway, looking around with weary eyes.  Slowly his expression lifts, into a look of doubt and hope tied painfully together, as though hearing voices much-missed and silent for many years.

“Sweet life,” says May. “I know that face!  It can’t be! –“

The old man’s eyes come to rest on Chirrut and Baze and he stands staring for a long moment.  Then very slowly he smiles and inclines his head to them.

Tivik is groaning jokingly.  “Don’t tell me I’m competing with a kriffing Wookiee!”

“Ach, Peach, for shame!  I’m not talking about the Wookiee, could never cope with the musk…  The old guy – it can’t be but –“ she points - “Force alive!  It _is_ him!”

Master Chirrut walks towards the old man, moving slowly, almost ceremoniously, supporting himself with his stick like someone in a state of shock.  They stand facing one another and exchange a few words.  Then, very carefully, they embrace.  Baze, coming up behind his partner, appears to be weeping.

“It’s General Kenobi!” says May.  She grins and begins to laugh, her lekku quivering with excitement.  “I’d swear it is!  My old mentor Fulcrum used to know him.  I thought he was supposed to be dead!  Force alive, this is a good day!”

The med-bay is heaving now, doctors and droids bustling to help the crowds of injured.  As Tivik had suspected, the three of them are soon being steered out and escorted back across the base to another pyramid.  Mayneta heads off to report in for a briefing; Chirrut and Baze have stayed behind with the newcomers, talking eagerly to the old man May insists is a Jedi.

So there are still Jedi; they aren’t just a legend.  Another thing Saw was wrong about.  But perhaps it would have made him glad, this time at least.  If the last of the Jedi are still out there, alive, in hiding, then that is surely one more reason to hope. 

Even if her own life matters to no-one here, even if all she can do is hold a gun and obey orders now, she can believe there may really be a future for the galaxy.  And that’s good enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, damn right I'm saving a lot of people! I'm the writer so I get to play that gome; it's an AU, none of the canon details have to be the same, so I WILL HAVE Owen and Beru survive, and the Admiral, and Obi-wan, too. Go and dance on a drain if you don't like it!!


	41. Chapter 41

The quarters they are taken to are simple.  Two adjacent rooms; each contains a bed, a desk and chair and a closet, and there’s a shared small ‘fresher between them.  Jyn pulls out the seat in one room and sits down heavily; hears Cassian at the door, persuading Tivik to leave the two of them there.  He seems to be implying they cannot wait to get physical with one another.  It would have been amusing, once. 

She’s got nothing against Tiv, but she doesn’t want him there.  She hopes he does leave them in peace.  Even though there’s surely no chance Cassian is planning to seduce her, and she doesn’t think she could reciprocate if he were.  She’s so tired she can hardly think. 

Tiv moves gradually from a dismal pout to a quiver of good-humour, and eventually allows himself to be steered out.  A moment later she hears the neighbouring door bump shut.

“Sorry about that,” Cassian says.  “Hopefully May will come back and distract him when she’s finished.” 

She gives him a shaky smile.  “I’m afraid I don’t think I’m quite up to letting you make passionate love to me just yet.  Even assuming you still want me.”  Is it wise to say that, to pre-empt the embarrassment before it starts?  How can she trust this peacefulness between them, when surely it can never last?  In the end it’s always going to be easier to break it herself than to wait for him to work round to it. 

She looks away before she can see his reaction, bending to unlace her boots.  The clamminess of bacta still clings to her ankle.  The pain is much less and coming over from the med-bay she could walk without support, but she’s pretty sure the medical staff had her out of the tank before the sprain was completely healed.  She wonders which of the new patients is now sitting soaking in that same little tank.

“Jyn.”  Cassian has sat down on the bed, facing her.  He stretches his legs out with a little sigh.  “Jyn, look at me.”

She glances up sidelong and her bangs fall across her eyes.  He’s looking down at her, he looks as weary as she feels.  She pushes the hair aside.  “What is it?”

“Jyn.  My love.  Why would I not want you?”

Why would he ask that?  Of course he can’t – but what can she say? – she blinks and stutters for a moment.  Force, she’s still so _tired_.  “It’s okay,” she says.  She’d like to explain but it’s all such a blur of events piling one on the other, haste and fear, an hour’s sleep here, a day and night of running for her life and trying to save him; and “I don’t expect you to stay” she murmurs.  “Everyone always leaves.  Leaves, or gets killed.  I’d rather you left than died.”

“Oh, Jyn…”  He leans forward, elbows on his knees, face grave.  “Please stop.  Please don’t do this again.  Why are you trying to make me leave you?  I’m not going anywhere.  You said it was all a lie, back in the Archives, but I know it wasn’t.  We both know that.  Please let me stay with you, please stop trying to push me away.”

He is too good.  She’d like to sink into the floor.  “Oh my dear.  It was what I said then that was the lie.  Yes, I was trying to push you to go away, I admit it.  So you wouldn’t stay and get caught, or hurt, or worse.  I’m so sorry I said those things.  I’m so sorry I lied to you so much.  It was unforgiveable, I know that.  I just didn’t know what else to do.  I don’t know how to do any of this, I’m sorry, I’m no use to you, oh Force alive I don’t even know what I’m saying…”

She goes back to her boots, because it’s unbearable to have to talk about this, to face the fact that she just made a joke of being unable to make love to him, that she assumed of course he will never want to touch her again and of course she’s misread him again, she is useless in the face of hope, useless at everything;  and she is so kriffing tired she feels as though every word is a mountain in her throat –

“Jyn, please, don’t turn away from me.  Please look at me.”

Jyn pulls off her left boot and then her right and drops them under the desk.  Flexes her toes in their dirty socks.  Looks up, again.  He looks so concerned.  So loving.  She isn’t sure she can bear it.  Her arms are quivering slightly and she wrings her hands and shakes them out, lets them flop at her sides.  Says wearily “Are you saying you forgive me?”  It seems improbable.  Her head aches.  But this is Cassian, so maybe – oh, Force, please -

“There’s nothing to forgive,” he says, very gently.  “You were in an impossible situation.  Who’s to say I wouldn’t have done the same in your place?  Jyn, if I’d left you there in the Archives and gone home, maybe I could have had my old life back.  Certainly I could have hated you; I could have taught myself how to do that.  And you might have died, either with Saw or out by the canal the next day, and I would never have known.  I could have gone back to being a good little boy and never looked at the reality of my world again, and I would have lost you and everything you’d helped me to see, just because it was easier.  In time I might even have forgotten everything, or convinced myself I had.  And – you know what? - it would have killed me.  I would never have allowed myself to care about anyone, ever again.  I would never have been an artist again; I would have been a machine just producing pretty things for anyone who could pay.”

“Oh, Cassian…”  She’s trying not to cry at the desolation in his voice. 

“I thought I knew what love is; I thought it was about all the pretty things, like the things I could make, pretty things and happy days, all that excitement in my heart at the idea of seeing you again in a few hours.  Then I saw you fighting for your life and mine, fighting to try and finish your mission, and I knew I would do anything to help you.  I would bleed for you.  I would put myself in front of a blaster bolt to stop it reaching you.  It isn’t pretty, not just pretty, loving someone, it’s angry and overwhelming and it means you may not understand what they do, like I don’t understand why you’re trying to steer me away again, but you need to know, I will still stand by you even then and –“

“Stop, stop, Cassian, please, I –“

It’s too much.  Jyn stands clumsily and stumbles the two steps to his side, takes his head between her hands.  “Dearest, don’t, I don’t deserve this love, you deserve better than me –“

“Hush,” he says, pulling her close, wrapping his arms round her, his face pressed between her breasts, quieting himself and her.  She embraces him tightly, they are moving closer, dragging every inch of their bodies into contact, and she’s standing between his legs now, she clings and bends forward, shaking, clutching his back, his hair, enfolding him as if her tired bloodstained hands can hold off danger and keep him safe somehow for the remainder of time.  Her voice sobs dry in her throat and “Hush,” he says again “hush, my dear, my love, shh, shh…”

His hands are stroking her spine, working up to her shoulders,  the back of her neck.  She strains to hold him tighter, kissing the crown of his head, whispering to him. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry…  I’ve brought you into so much danger, Cassian, I’m so sorry…”

“Shh, shh…”  Although she’s the one standing and holding him, although it’s his head on her bosom, it is he who is doing all the soothing.  They rock from side to side gently, clinging to one another.

“I wish I’d never hurt you, I wish I could have left you where you were happy…”

“Hush, my dear, my love, hush…”

He tugs her down at last and she sinks onto the bed, sitting wearily beside him, her hip against his, her head now on his breast; and he holds her again, and she holds him, both of them shaking slightly, both of them breathing the deep, rough breath that comes after tears.

“What did you say to me on the levee?  _It’s not over yet_.  It’s not over yet, Jyn.  We’re still alive.  We’ll be happy again, I know we will.  Somehow.  Even in this war.  We’ll find a way to be.”

“I love you so much.” It’s these words she wants never to stop saying, not the guilt, not the shame and pain.  She’s seen so much death and here he still is, with his arms round her.  “I’m sorry.  I’m so afraid of losing you and so afraid of getting you hurt, after all this, you deserve better than me –“

“I love you, Jyn.  And we are alive.”

Jyn raises her head and kisses him through her tears. 

She remembers that influx of exhausted survivors tramping into the med-bay, the doctors and droids flocking to help them, Chirrut and Baze greeting the man in the robe, Mayneta smiling as if the sun had risen.  That happened; those people survived, got through, got safe.  There is still hope, out there, in the black.  She must not let herself fail and be defeated, not now.

She feels Cassian’s wiry arms tighten round her body.  His hands slide under her shirt, across her skin, caressing and shielding her.  His lips part, warm against hers, his embrace so full of life as they sink down onto the bed, and they are tangled together, too tired to do much beyond kiss and touch, but giving one another that comfort, that care; surrendering, reaffirming, holding to the certainty of love. 

There’s still hope, there’s still love.  It’s not over yet.

The door entry buzzes politely and Cassian says in a growl “If that’s Tiv changing his fucking mind I’m going to punch him!”

“Oh, I love you, I love you so much, don’t hit poor Tivik!”  She’s laughing helplessly as they both sit up, disentangling their legs.  “Who is it?”

“Me,” says Mayneta from outside.  “Jyn?  The Council wants to speak with you.”

“Huh?  _Krif_ …” She sighs, heaves herself up and finds some last dregs of energy, somewhere.  Refastens her shirt, levers herself off the bed.  “The Council?  What about?” 

“Captain Rook is still in med-bay and they – they have some questions.  About the Death Star.  They know who your father was, Jyn.”

“Ah.”  She turns, looking back at Cassian, wondering how he will react to that; but he doesn’t even flinch.  She gives him a grateful smile.  “I suppose I’d better come, then.”

“I’m coming with you,” he says, pulling himself up; and she does not try to stop him.   

“Where’s Tiv?” May asks when they are with her in the passage.

“Next door,” Cassian tells her.  “When we’re finished with this, do me a favour, will you?  Come back and stay with him.  We threw him out but he’s got as much right to not be alone as anyone else.”

“Oh, I’m all debriefed now; believe me, I’m all his.  It’s been a hells of a day.  Corporal Lewell here will be escorting you.”  They leave her tapping on the door of Tivik’s quarters, saying hopefully “Peach, are you there?”

Lewell turns out to be the monosyllabic sort, and Jyn has no more idea what the Council wants to ask her when they arrive back at the meeting room ten minutes later.  At least she’s beginning to build up a mental map of the place now.  The Corporal knocks and immediately opens the door and ushers her and Cassian inside.  Straight into the middle of a heated quarrel.

The woman in white and the red-haired General are facing up to another woman in white; no, a girl, or perhaps a fury.  It’s the teenager from the med-bay.  She’s smaller even than Jyn herself, all dirty flowing dress and filthy boots, dark hair falling out of a pair of elaborate half-ruined buns; and she’s shouting with rage. 

“It’s my home-world, my people; it’s _my duty_ to go!  You have no right to stop me, Mon, it’s not within your authority!”

“Senator – Princess – please –“

“If you’re going to tell me again that the risk is unquantifiable then _can_ it!  I heard Tarkin with my own ears; the attack on Scarif used a single reactor strike, this – this _thing_ – is capable of five times that and he’s going to use it on Alderaan!”

“Princess,” says General Draven “We will be launching an assault on the battle station as soon as our technicians complete –“

“And don’t you start trying to soothe me down, either, Davits Draven!  You’ve already sent one unauthorised mission to try and solve this fuck-up so don’t start telling me I have to wait for authorisation for mine!”

“Leia, please!”  Mothma sounds exasperated and exhausted.  “If what General Kenobi tells us is correct, then you and your brother are possibly the most precious resource the Alliance has ever possessed.  We cannot risk you on one of the attack ships!”

“I just flew here in an overloaded bucket of bolts piloted by a lunatic and a sentient carpet, so don’t talk to me about risk!”

“Princess, please…”

The dark-haired girl almost growls at Draven.

Whatever they’d wanted earlier has clearly been forgotten.  It’s galling to think she could have been peacefully in Cassian’s arms all this time.  They could have been sleeping and they’ve trailed across the base just to be ignored.  Jyn steps forward and hears her own voice say “Okay, we’ll come back later.  You people finish your row.”

Saw would have slapped her for that.  But Draven simply focusses sharply on her.  Cool and smooth as a steel bolt.  “Ah, Ms Erso.  Thank you for coming so promptly.” He ignores her brazen rudeness as if it had never been uttered; she’s useful to him, a tool, not enough of a person to be worth reacting to personally.  “Your Highness, allow me to present Jyn Erso, who assisted Captain Rook and Lieutenant Marwani in the data extraction.  You said you had questions.”

“ _Unauthorised_ data extraction,” says the Princess pointedly.  She tilts her chin up to examine Jyn.  “Who’s your friend?”

“My name is Cassian Andor.  I’m an artist and I am with Jyn.”

His hand is firm on her shoulder.  She thinks of K-2 looming protectively over Bodhi, and smiles.  Everyone is angry and stressed, she’d like to break all of their heads and then fall in a heap crying on the floor, but Cassian is behind her, quiet, unwavering, steadying her.  To her surprise, the Princess grins suddenly. 

“This is the young man General Dodonna was talking about earlier.”  Mothma.

“Fine.  I’m Senator Leia Organa, welcome to the Rebellion.  Jyn, is it? – I’m sorry to drag you back here but I need to ask you some questions about your father’s work.  We have a team working on the plans you brought us, but it’s a monumental task and they don’t really know where to begin.  We know the Empire is planning a strike on an entire planet.  My home planet, Alderaan.  We have to destroy the Death Star, cripple it at the minimum, before they can carry out their plan.  I realise you’re not an engineer, but do you have any idea what our people should be looking for?”

 _Alderaan_.  It’s one of the most densely populated of all the Core worlds.  All Jyn’s frustrations, all her losses, seem small in the face of that thought.  A planet of over two billion souls.  She blinks, feeling Cassian’s grip on her shoulder grow tight; has to take a deep breath before she can speak.  “Yes, I do.  At least, I know a little.”  The Princess straightens, her face eager and hard.  Jyn says “I saw the message my father sent Saw Gerrera.  He said that he’d hidden a trap in the reactor core – no, the _reactor_ _module_ , that was the term he used - some sort of instability that no-one had spotted.  He said one blast to any part of it would set off a chain reaction and destroy the entire station.  A single pressurized explosion.”  She hopes it’s enough to be of use; it sounds feeble, a handful of crumbs, now she’s said it.

The Princess touches a key on the projector console and says into a speaker “Did you get that, Dr Susa?”

“An instability in the reactor module.  Thank you, Senator, that’s exactly what we needed.”

She closes the connection again and stands looking at them both across the table, her dark eyes brilliant.  It’s a little like having a very pretty, very fierce Loth-kitten staring at one.  There’s something challenging about her, a forthright spirit, a lack of self-absorption that is certainly not modesty.  A total frankness. 

“We’d understood you were captured,” Jyn says.  “Senator.”

“I escaped,” says Leia Organa, grinning again.  “With a little help from an old family friend.  And a brother I never knew I had.  Plus an infuriating con-man and a giant hairball.  We managed to rescue the prisoners from Scarif and Tatooine and we flew here in a freighter that’s more rust than tin.  It’s been quite a day.”

She doesn’t seem particularly royal, or even official.  It’s pleasingly surreal to be able to speak so casually to someone who moments earlier was pulling rank on Commander Mothma and the General.  Jyn smiles.  “Same here.  Minus the long-lost brother, sadly.”

“Well, get used to it, these are going to be interesting times.  Now, Mr Andor – I’ve been informed that you were the one responsible for _this_ –“ she taps another key on the console and Cassian’s drawing appears, floating in mid-air above the table.  Jyn flinches minutely, feels his hand on her shoulder tense again.  “It’s an extraordinary piece of work.  Tell me, have you ever thought of becoming an embedded War Artist?”

“I hadn’t,” Cassian says cautiously “But I want to be useful.”

“Good.  Talk to General Dodonna sometime, he can use you.”  She switches off the image again and Jyn releases a held breath.  Princess Leia turns to Commander Mothma.  “Now, going back to our earlier discussion –“

“Absolutely not.  I forbid it!”

They are arguing with one another again within moments.  Jyn looks round at Cassian, wondering if they can slip away now.  Saw would have barked _Dismissed_ or had them shown – or physically pushed – out of the room.  It’s continually jarring to realise how different the main Alliance is compared to a small cell of partisan fighters; so much larger in every logistical sense yet so much less hide-bound. 

These two women must be two of its most senior commanders yet they are shouting openly at one another now. 

She suppresses a tired, childish desire to cheer Princess Leia on.

A comm light begins blinking on the console.  Commander Mothma slaps it irritably and scans the message that appears. 

“Susa again,” she says, reading; then her face lights up. “Princess!  They’ve got it!”

Beside her, the Princess strikes another comm key. “Calling every fighter pilot who can get airborne.  This is Leia Organa of Alderaan speaking.  Get to your muster stations!  Prepare to launch an immediate attack!” 

As she’s speaking there’s a sudden commotion outside, and a slim, fair-haired youth appears in the doorway.  “Leia!” 

A brilliant yellow light begins to flash in the corridor beyond, haloing his figure.  Next moment a siren begins to blare.

He’s wearing flight gear now but Jyn recognises the youth from the med-bay.  He says eagerly “It’s coming!  Not to Alderaan – here!” and the Princess goes rigid for a moment; then

“I’m coming with you,” says Leia Organa of Alderaan.  “No more arguments, Mon.  Someone get me a ship.  I’m coming with you, Luke!”


	42. Chapter 42

They’re nobodies, neither of them a pilot, neither of them anyone’s responsibility.  The base is on maximum alert and everyone who can fly a fighter has been scrambled to the defence; and they are back in their assigned quarters.

“I can’t stand this,” Jyn says bitterly.  “I’ll go insane waiting to die like this, hiding in this bloody warren.  It stinks in here.  I just want to be in the open air.”

She stands, pacing impulsively about the tiny bedroom.  Looks pleadingly at him.

“Please, Cassian?  Let’s go into the jungle, or – I don’t know, climb on a roof or something.  We won’t be in anyone’s way and – and –“

He wishes he could have got her to lie down and sleep; she looks exhausted.  The room they’ve been given is homely enough, if it had only _been_ home it might even have felt comforting.  When they got back from their brief meeting, leaving the furious little Princess to join the pilots, they’d even found someone had supplied them both with fresh clothes.  But the air is stifling, so motionless it feels dead; and Jyn is right, it smells.  Mould and damp and an ancient under-stone wetness.

The alarms keep blarting endlessly; no-one could rest in this din, even if they had the nerve to just lie down and wait to discover how long death took getting here.  The whole base is humming with activity around them.  Everyone has a job to do now; and their own efforts are all done. 

He knows they won’t be on the priority evacuation lists.  Maybe not on any lists at all.  In all likelihood they have less than an hour to wear their new clean shirts and pants.  If they can get outdoors then they will at least die in the fresh air, breathing freely, looking at something living. 

He gets up off the bed, takes her outstretched hand, lets her lead him out of the door.  They hesitate for a moment outside the neighbouring room; but an orgasmic growl comes from within and Jyn blushes suddenly and pulls him away.  “They’re busy, we shouldn’t –“

Out here in the passage the proximity alert signals are louder again, a hideous on-off screaming.  Yellow and scarlet lights flash, sometimes in synch with the sirens and one another, sometimes not. People hurry by, purposeful and focussed.  Earlier, as Lewell escorted them back at the double, everyone running about had seemed to be a pilot or a crewman.  He’d even recognised some of the beings he saw arrive in med-bay a few hours ago, still wearing the same patched and dirty flight suits, their injuries covered with field dressings now. 

The remaining personnel are mostly ground crew and support staff.  Everyone knows where they’re going and what they’re doing.

Mayneta it seems has chosen where to spend her last hour, with Tivik, in peaceful privacy.  He wonders where the Captain is, how he’s coping; if he’s still in med-bay, if he’s even conscious of what is going on.  Wonders where the droid went; what Chirrut and Baze are doing.  It doesn’t seem likely he’ll see any of them again.

They walk on through the long stone passages, hand in hand, trying to keep going and avoid getting in anyone’s way.  The building is a labyrinth, no way of knowing if they’re near an exit.  But at least they’re on their feet now.  It feels less passive merely to be moving.  Jyn takes the lead and he lets her, since for all her tiredness she seems to be moving purposefully and he knows he’s completely adrift.

Suddenly there’s a breath of movement in the stale air, and next moment there’s daylight at the end of a side passage.  “This way!” Jyn says eagerly.  They thread through the passers-by, hurrying down the narrow corridor, and come out under a stone archway into a bay between two of the pyramids.  Storage cylinders ten feet high are ranged under an arcade, and just ahead a flight of steps mounts the side of another pillared hall.  The stonework is crumbling, broken up with roots and lianas, but intact enough to climb.  Jyn heads that way instantly.

He pulls back. “How’s your ankle?  Are you going to be okay climbing?”

She grins sadly.  “Doesn’t bother me.  We’ll probably be dead in half an hour anyway.”

_It bothers me_ , he wants to say; because if their lives are ending now, all the more reason she should die in peace, all the more reason these last minutes should be focussed on something good and not spent upon pain.  But she is looking sidelong at him with eyes half sad and half bellicose, squeezing his hand again, drawing him onwards, and he says nothing.

She climbs higher than he would have risked, scrambling and swearing and hauling herself up;  and when she stops at last they are on a broad terrace at fourth floor level, with a carved parapet behind them, overhung with creepers, and the whole base with its landing strips and hangars and hurrying busy people all spread out below.  Two small figures with hand-held signallers come down the runway, waving a grey-hulled med-evac ship into take-off position.  Beyond them , a second ship is being readied, stretcher bearers and medics escorting the wounded on board.  He notices the Mon Calamari from earlier, the one whose arrival had caused a fuss, on one of the waiting stretchers; prone still but conscious, and apparently giving instructions to two junior officers.

Perhaps Bodhi will be aboard one of these ships; perhaps he and his griefs and doubts are safe already.  Perhaps the droid is even with him.

The din of sirens is less obtrusive up here, and Jyn says “Good to be out of that racket, eh?”

She picks her way across the crumbling roof and flops down at the edge.

He joins her.  There’s more than a trace of a breeze here, now they’re higher up, and less sense of being confined by endless forest.  The green distance looks far and bright.

“It’s beautiful,” he says, settling beside her. 

She glances at him and smiles.  “Yeah.  I would never have noticed that, before you.  But you’re right.  All those trees.  All that light.”

It’s very early morning, just after dawn; long shadows, again, but soft and pale this time, and peaceful.  A misty haze along the horizon, and bird and animal calls echoing from the forest all around.  The light is delicate, the morning sun warm on his skin.  Over to the east, the hazy red disc of Yavin itself is just lifting above the treetops.

“I wonder how long we’ve got?”

Jyn turns her head, scanning the heavens.  “Am I being silly to think we’ll see it?  We don’t even know how big it is.  I thought we’d see ships, tracer fire, I don’t know…  I wonder if that Princess is up there now?”

“I hope she is; I hope they let her go.  She’s got a hell of a fighting spirit.”

Birds call eagerly in the morning brightness.  A new day beginning.

“My father built it, you know,” Jyn says quietly.  “That’s why they thought I’d know about it.  I just found out a few days ago.  He didn’t die when I was a child.  My mother did – I was right about that, I saw it happen, Krennic had her shot - but not Papa.  They took him and broke him and made him work for them.  But in the end he got his own back, he told us where to find the plans and what to look for.  They executed him for that.”

“No wonder you wanted to kill the Director.”

“Yeah…  He’d always been very kind to me, like a favourite uncle – and then that, out of nowhere, my Mama dead in a field, and he…” She looks away, biting her upper lip for a second.  “I’ve never hated anyone the way I hated him.”

The evacuation ship takes off with a roar of engines.  The second one is already taxiing into position.

“I’m so sorry…”

He is watching the forest, and the ships, and her; and trying not to let his eyes keep sliding up into the empty sky.  There’s still nothing to be seen save the morning sun and the rose-red planet rising.

Jyn’s gaze darts upwards as well.  “This is hell, isn’t it? This waiting…”

She looks round at him and reaches for his hand.  He meets hers halfway.  Their fingers entwine.

“You told the Princess your father had sabotaged it – this –“ it’s hard to say it; harder still to imagine it approaching, perhaps already above them, invisible in the morning haze, and he cannot prevent another brief glance skywards –“ this battle station?”

“Yeah.”

“So when you passed that message on, you were finishing his work.  He’d be proud of you.”

“Guess so…”  She squeezes his hand tightly.  Her mouth is tense, the compressed lines to either side of it deepening as though she’s smiling in pain.  “Tell me about your father?”

The second med-evac blasts down the runway and lifts away.  The ground crew stand for a moment as if bereft, watching it go.

“I hope Bodhi’s on that,” he says; and then “My father?  His name was Jeron.  He was a teacher.  He’d just got a job as an instructor at the Carida Academy, we moved there from Fest.  But he thought the Old Republic was too militarised, too heavy-handed.  He took me on a demonstration one weekend.  It was a peaceful march in support of the Separatist movement; there were thousands of people, families everywhere.  I was six.  He lifted me up on his shoulders so I could see the procession, all the banners, the musicians.  It was like a festival.  Magical, happy, so many bright colours everywhere.  I remember telling him there were men with guns coming, and he said _That is why we need to protest, that shouldn’t be normal_ ; and he was just setting me down when they opened fire.  He straightened up and then he fell and didn’t get back up again.  People were screaming and running but I stayed with him.  I held his hand and watched him die.”

There’s a blink of a shape in the sky; a silver curve, like a new moon, emerging from behind the planetary disc.  Jyn grips his hand convulsively.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” she says.

Cassian straightens his back, gets to his knees.  As though facing it full-on will make dying any easier.  When he looks across at Jyn her mouth is working.  She meets his eyes with naked, honest fear, and he regrets more than anything he’s ever known, not having had the time, not having got to know her again, properly, free of all the chaos that brought them to one another. 

Somehow they are facing one another.  He risks another glance up at their death, gleaming in the sky.  Looks back at Jyn’s face with sorrow and great joy.  At least they had what they had.

“Your father would be proud of you,” Jyn says very softly.

She’s touching his face, moving nearer, putting her arms round him; and there are tears on her cheeks and her voice shakes, her whole body is shaking, pressed close to his at last.  He embraces her and buries his face in her hair. 

There’s so much more that he wants to say and there will never be time.

The distant sirens are still shrieking.  The forest birds call, joyous, unaware.  Jyn’s hair is chestnut brown (and he remembers choosing her colours, remembers painting her, watching the light fall on her beautiful face as she sat for him).  Her thin arms are strong and warm.  She smells of bacta and dust, and clean linen, and sweat. 

He closes his eyes and clings to her and to the last moments of life.

Any second, it must hit.  He imagines fire, imagines heat and unimaginable light, and the forest burning; imagines a roar beyond all sound and then silence.  But all he can hear is Jyn’s sobbing breath, and birdsong.

Jyn gasps, a tiny cut-short inhalation, shocked, frail.  This is it, he thinks; and he’s terrified, but he opens his eyes.  It’s wrong not to meet it with her, open-eyed as she must still be, open-eyed as she made him.

There is no sound, but there is light.  A fireball of perfect whiteness expanding in the sky, coming towards them, far more beautiful than he had ever pictured something so cruel could be; and there is no pain.  The fire is dissipating, going out, going through, into nothing.  The sound of the explosion arrives moments later, while they are both still staring.

There are burning scraps falling, like fireworks, from the evanescent heart of a star.

They kneel, pressed together, utterly still as the heavens rain light upon them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is where the main story ends, with the first Death Star destroyed and our heroes together in safety. But there will be a coda coming in the form of one final chapter, as soon as I've finished it!


	43. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to warn you, this is a bit of a monster final part; as in, around three times the length of the average previous chapter.

Wars do not end with a single victory.

There are the days when they are together, and the days and months of separation.  Their messages to one another, scrambled through a coder, couched in strings of random characters, darting across space when she is far away, or he is. 

_– Just got back and it looks as though we’ll have at least three weeks before we redeploy, is there any chance you can be here before then? –_

A new elite team of Pathfinders do their work, they carry the fight into quiet, dark corners of the Empire where no-one sees them coming.  Somehow they keep coming back to base alive, two humans and a sarcastic droid, flying a battered, meteor-scarred U-wing; and each time they do, for a few days his heart lightens, wherever he is.  He can’t always get to where they are when they get home, but whenever he can, he goes.

_– I’ll see you tomorrow, can’t wait, ILY! –_

An artist sits in an underground shelter during the most prolonged civilian bombardment ever known, watching, drawing, never stopping drawing; just doing his work, as he will do it, to the end.  He sees families holding one another as the tunnels shake around them day and night; sees children attending improvised classrooms, doctors treating the sick in near-darkness, the troubled and the terrified all struggling on with equal courage in the end; sees the wounded dying and the pregnant giving birth, all of them packed together in these confined lightless spaces underground.  The Shelter Sketchbooks  are published, exhibited, disseminated widely.  The humanity and compassion of the images shakes public opinion.  Contributions flow into refugee aid charities, and Imperial recruitment falls on a dozen core worlds. 

_\- We saw your pics on the holo-news here, they are superb.  B was moved to tears too.  I am so proud of what you’re doing but please don’t get yourself stuck in another blitz, ok? -_

The Pathfinders are pinned down in a bunker on Cosugal without food for a week.  Drinking water runs out after five days and when at last they break out, it is only to be hit in the crossfire.  Sheer rage carries her to the ship, dragging her partner bodily; and they both collapse once on board.  The droid is badly damaged, too, but re-routes multiple systems to fly the U-wing home.  It is still being fixed-up, both organics still in med-bay, when he has to leave to cover the efforts of a volunteer medical team on Lothal.

_– The destruction and suffering here is terrible, I hope I can do something to help the relief effort by showing it honestly -_

He narrowly avoids capture.  Gets back to an empty room on Hoth, the day after she ships out on another trip to an unspecified destination, with an unspoken goal, and dangers no-one will talk about.

_\- Mission extended, don’t know when I’ll be back, B and K send greetings -_

There are days when they can sit together, eat together, sleep together; when morning means waking curled in one another’s arms, breath fogging in the cold air, means making love slowly and quietly, or just pulling the covers up to burrow against one another in the warmth for a few hours, a few minutes, more.  He liaises with the rest of the War Artists’ Panel, and with the hard-bitten men and women who work grimly to counter the Empire’s propaganda and put out some of their own.  She trains with Bodhi, writes mission reports, attends briefings and debriefs, reads and catches up on sleep.  They have lunch with Bodhi and K-2, with Tivik and May, they celebrate feast days and victories, commiserate losses, mourn together, hope together.  For a week or a month, here and there, they’re like any other couple on base, busy and weary and working together.  Until one or the other has to go, again, and once more the weeks of uncertainty begin, once more fear takes up residence, squatting silent, unbudging, in the back of the heart. 

_\- it was so good seeing you, miss you always, look after yourself, ILY, OK? –_

_\- haven’t heard from you, hope all is well, I miss you so much -_

Wars do not end with a single victory.  They do not end with a dozen of them.  But in the end there is always the one that tips the balance.

The Battle of Jakku was four months ago.

_\- I will see you on Corellia.  I know how strange it will seem to be back there.  Nonetheless I cannot wait.  I love you._

**

He stands just inside the main entrance of the Museum, staring at the remaining trees on the street and listening to the quoriol birds singing in them.  Mellow long notes descending and ascending the scale, unchanged.  The city is battered and broken but still very much alive, and the birds, it would seem, are eternal.  Above his head a banner twenty feet long stirs in the summer breeze.  Bold dark letters are stencilled over a coloured reproduction of one of the most famous of the Shelter drawings.  

A New Hope: Four painters of war and peace

Cassian Andor   
Nevine Hallitan  
Ana-Manina Mennells   
Tivik Vandana

Exhibition by courtesy of the AWAAC

The show has been open for three days.  The private view drew quite a crowd.  It was strange to see people who might once have swanned in fine fabrics and embroidery to dance at an Imperial ball now standing soberly in plain clothes, in front of paintings of war and death.  Images of the bombed med-centre on Lothal, the survivors of the Chatzan Massacre, the refugee camps where Tiv spent almost two years.  They discussed the work gravely, drank sparkling water, put contributions for refugee relief into the collecting box in the foyer.  Occasionally he found himself exchanging a cynical glance with Tivik and the other two.  

The most popular painting in the show is one of his own; he isn’t sure whether to be proud or embarrassed at that.  Officially it’s called simply “Group portrait” but he’s never heard it referred-to except as “the Jedi picture”.  At the front stands a small green being with a walking stick and a serenely self-satisfied expression, beside a slender Togruta with massive scars and large blue eyes, and an expression anything but serene.  General Kenobi is at the back, looking, as he so often does, as though he cannot quite believe what is happening to him.  Flanking him stand Luke Skywalker, beaming awkwardly, and Leia Organa, grinning insouciantly.  All of them carrying their terrifying laser weapons.  He remembers having to ask them, please, not to turn the lightsabers on unless strictly necessary.  The noise was distracting, and the thought of being inadvertently sliced through, even more so. 

But everyone loves the picture.  He’s lost count already of the number of people who have told him so.  After all their failings, somehow the idea of the Jedi has come round again to represent hope; and people need hope, and heroes to embody it.

In the room after that are the drawings and maquettes for a war memorial.  He looks forward to showing them to Jyn if she does manage to get here.  It’s Ana-Manina’s current commission, commemorating the Corellian Partisans and their struggle.  After a long development process she’s finalised a design of four defiant figures, standing back to back; prominent among them is a tall elderly man with a bush of wild hair, cybernetic legs, a walking stick held before him like a quarterstaff.  It will stand in the centre of a new plaza in the rebuilt harbour quarter of Old Town.

The last room is his favourite; images of rebuilding, on Rodia and Lothal and Yavin 4, of the Jedhan survivors taking ship home, of soldiers returning and families reunited, children hugging parents they hadn’t seen in years.  There’s a series of small pieces showing the officers of the Repatriation Service, at work on the prison planets of Einithion and Vallt; finally a forested landscape with a clear evening sky above, the soft fading light scattered with firework bursts.  One can look at these pictures and believe in the idea of _A new hope_ , the name chosen for the show after his own plainer, more descriptive choice, _Recent work by war artists,_ was turned down.

His comm buzzes in his pocket and he turns from the view of the boulevard and the trees in full summer foliage, and takes it out.  Flips the little screen on; it’s Jyn, and his heart soars for a moment before he reads

_\- held up, debrief over-ran, this sucks, maybe with you by tomorrow evening?  Meet you at the Momus, ILY Jx -_

Cassian pulls a face and hopes _tomorrow evening_ won’t turn into _in a day or two_ and then _urgent call-out, this sucks even more I’m so sorry…_   It wouldn’t be the first time, if that did happen; but surely now the Armistice has held for all this time and the Concordances have been signed, surely at last there will be less for her unit to do?

The comm buzzes again just as he’s putting it away.  Please let it be her saying there was a misunderstanding and she’s on her way… 

Cantru.  It’s a moment before he recognises the name. 

_\- Good afternoon, Mr Andor, I don’t know if you will remember me after so long.  I came to your exhibition yesterday.  I just wanted to say how impressive it was, and how very happy it has made me to see that you must indeed be the same Cassian Andor I let lodgings to once, long ago.  I wondered if I might ask for a moment of your time before you leave Coronet City?  I still have some of your property in storage and thought you might like to have what items I’ve been able to salvage returned to you.  With kind regards, Derutio Cantru -_

Derutio.  He’s never known his old landlord’s given name till now.

Some property in storage?  He left everything, all his materials and equipment, every stitch of clothing he owned; the handful of personal items he has never allowed himself to think of in the years since; every painting and sketchbook he possessed.  _What items I’ve been able to salvage_ …  It’s astonishing to think there might be anything at all.

_\- Mr Cantru, how very kind of you to get in contact.  I’m delighted you enjoyed the show and would love to meet up.  I cannot begin to express my gratitude that you’ve kept any of my things after all this time.  Would sometime tomorrow afternoon be acceptable for you?  I am free any time after third hour until the early evening.  With warmest good wishes,  Cassian Andor –_

**

He remembers Cantru as a self-assured man, wrapped up in his own affairs; and plump, and dark.  The greying figure that greets him, rising from a bench by the one remaining palm in the plaza, is a shock.  Not thin, exactly, but with that haggard looseness of flesh and of clothing that comes with too much weight lost too fast.

Cassian knows that he hasn’t changed nearly so much.  His hair is a little longer, clothes a little better; and five years of a life unlike anything he’d ever imagined have given him a confidant self-possession his old landlord now seems to lack.  But though he carries himself differently he’s still the same string bean of a man who lived here before, who was badly-dressed and badly-fed, and grateful for a lodging, anxious always to pay his rent on time. 

It behoves him, he thinks, to be kind and careful in his courtesy; there’s clearly been suffering here, for the man is a shadow of his former self.

Cassian reaches out, gives a firm handshake,  “Mr Cantru!  It’s good to see you, sir.”

“Mr Andor.  My dear fellow, thank you for coming.  Most appreciative.  I suppose you noticed the state of the old place?”  He gestures up towards the corner building. 

Cassian looks automatically, though he had barely glanced that way when he came into the square. 

His old apartment block is boarded up and derelict.  One of the chimneys totters at an uneasy angle and part of the roof has fallen in.  Two doors down, in the adjacent street, a gap has been opened up as bomb-damaged houses are cleared away by a demolition team.

It’s clear they won’t be going inside the house.  He’s half-sorry, half-relieved.  With so much of the roof gone it’s hard to imagine if the apartment would even be recognisable.  It was home, once.  Perhaps best not to look back.

He follows the older man instead, down Espejo Street to a small tea-house, and a strange conversation.  Cantru orders fruit juice and sits making pleasantries, fiddling with the strap of the fabric bag he’s brought.  The small-talk is uncomfortable, and grows more so; and Cassian doesn’t know why, has no basis to try and ease the situation.  Neither the meeting itself, nor the location, was initiated by him, and he has no idea what underlies the increasingly strained conversation.

Finally his old landlord snaps, after some twenty minutes of stifling tension.

“I’m sorry, Mr Andor, I’m going to have to go.  I can’t – this is just – it’s hard, you know?”

“I’m so sorry, Mr Cantru, I can see that something is upsetting you but I don’t know what is wrong.  I didn’t mean to cause you so much distress.  If you’d prefer we could meet another day, or in another place?”

“No, it isn’t that…  Seeing you again; well, it just brings back so many things.  Reminds me of my boy, my Leiyo.  He was the same age as you, it’s just hard not to imagine him, you know…  Mrs C’s never got over losing him.  Anyway, I’m sorry, you know…  I thought it would be good to chat but I just keep thinking of – But anway, look, here, let me give you the things.”  He sets the bag on the table hastily.  “There, it’s all there.  We did have a couple of paintings as well but I had to sell them last year, during the blockade, when we were bombed out.  I was sorry to lose them but when you’ve got to eat, you know?  I’m sorry I can’t return them as well.  Landscapes, they were; two views of the coast, north of here.  We lived up there when Leiyo was little.  Anyway, sorry, yes…”  He wrings his hands for a moment, looking exhausted by this outburst.

Cassian stands, wanting to embrace him, knowing there’s no consolation he can bring for the loss of a son, a home, a way of life.  How bitter must it be, to see the shabby tenant return smiling and successful, and not your own child.  He holds out a hand, shakes the other’s hand again as warmly as he can.  “Of course, I understand.  I’m so sorry for everything.  Please feel free to contact me again if there’s anything I can do for you.  I don’t know how to thank you for saving some of my belongings.”

“You’re welcome, you’re very welcome.  Please don’t get me wrong, I don’t begrudge you or anything, it’s just – you know – anyway.  Anyway.  Goodbye, Mr Andor.”

And with that, he’s leaving.  Cassian watches him walk away, down the narrow street and across the old plaza, a grey shadow of a man, wearing his grief like a mantle.  Just one of the billions who have yet to find out how to remake their lives, or if they ever can.

He sits down again, and opens the bag.

**

The streets between his old home and the Café Momus on Azul Street were never a particularly stylish district and the area seems more downmarket than ever now.  But there are still plenty of habitable buildings, and people bustling by everywhere as the working day ends.  The light has just begun to go; stores and cantinas are opening up for the evening trade. 

The bakery where he used to shop is still there, with the day’s final batch of brown and white rolls in the window, and display baskets of ring-shaped crown cakes and saffron-yellow meringues.  The toy shop in the courtyard behind it has gone, but the shoe-mender on Aquila Street is open, and when he glances down the side-street there he can see the produce market on Fish Plaza is up and running just as always.  A waft of sweet-smelling air from a grill stall sets his mouth watering. 

Childishly, illogically, he doesn’t want to think about eating until he knows whether he can share his evening meal with Jyn.  Will she have managed to get here?  His comm has been silent all afternoon.

Bell Street, Abreu Street, Theatre Street.  Scaffolding and coloured canvas netting stretched over a half-rebuilt house.  A busker singing to the guitar, a child selling grapes off a tray; a dog chasing beetles into the mouth of a drain.  The Perla Rosa Music Hall is open, with posters outside advertising a cabaret show and a smiling Twi’lek sitting at the box office window serving a young couple.   After his sad encounter with Cantru it’s comforting to see all these simple normalities, and people getting back to their old lives as best they can. 

He rounds the corner of Theatre Street into Azul Street, and there’s the front terrace of the Momus, opposite.  It has hardly changed, and he stops dead for a moment, torn between gladness and a strange sense of disjuncture, an uncanny feeling of having stepped back through time. 

They still have the same red striped awnings that he remembers, and the same outdoor furniture.  It all looks a little more worn and faded than five years ago; but there are a good number of customers sitting outside, enjoying the evening cool, and the waiting staff still carry trays with grace and proffer data-pad menus smartly, and wear the same huge aprons that cover them to mid-calf, over their neat black and white uniforms. 

He wonders if the bar still has holo-figures dancing on it in the evenings; whether it’s still the artists’ hangout, whether this is still the artists’ quarter at all.  The local streets are shabby enough to make it pretty credible.

He’s been dreaming  of finding Jyn inside, imagining her sitting in that tucked-away corner, at the small square table under the green lights.  It’s been almost half a year they’ve been apart, this time, and his heart is full of astonished hope at the thought of seeing her again, here where their story began.  That quiet face he first saw through a haze of sugar spirits and excitement; Jyn, lonely and silent, hiding behind her beer.  Waiting for him; waiting for her mission to begin.  Neither of them knowing how this meeting would change their lives.

But as he crosses the road, dodging a tuk-tuk almost without thinking, he sees her sitting outside.  She’s wearing civilian clothes, a wide-necked blouse printed with flowers, baggy blue pants he hasn’t seen before, an old pair of sandals.  Her hair down.  A glass of wine before her on the table.  Her face is dreamy, lips soft.  He stands on the curb, looking at her, letting his pounding blood shake him with happiness for a moment.  _Jyn, Jyn, my Jyn_ …

As though someone has yelled for her attention she suddenly looks round sharply, straight at him.

Her face lights up, a broad, unabashed grin of happiness, all creases and teeth, even her nose crinkling, and she leaps to her feet, holding out her arms like a child.  Energy burns within him at the sight and he leaps forward, dances towards her between the chairs, dodging the feet and backs of the other café patrons, to reach her and fling his arms round her.  She’s laughing as she comes up on tiptoe, embracing him, pressing close, almost swinging on his neck with one foot kicking up behind. 

“Cassian, Cassian!”  Her voice is breathlessly happy, she’s laughing into his hair.  “Oh, Cassian, I’m being demobbed!”

“ _What_?”  He must have misheard, she can’t mean –“Demobilised?  Force alive!  When?”

Jyn leans back in is arms, beaming up at him.  “Effective as of the end of the month!  I sent in a request for early discharge, we all did; I didn’t know if it would be accepted but I heard yesterday.  I can take the remainder of my service time as shore leave, it seems I’m due rather a lot.  I’m free, Cassian, I’m free!”

She hugs him again, and he picks her up bodily and holds her tight.  “Oh, my dearest!  That’s wonderful news!”  She laughs, wriggling in his embrace, and he lowers her back to the terrace again.  “Oh Jyn, this is wonderful!”

“I know!  It’s the thing I’ve never quite let myself believe in; we all made it, and the war is over.  And I have no idea where home is, except that it’s with you; so wherever you and I are, that’s home and I’m coming home, I’m coming home, Cassian!”

So many years of worry and danger, of working as best he could, working and waiting; for her to come back from the fighting, for her to leave again for the next battle.  He begins to laugh too, in shock and delight as the truth of the news begins to work down into his heart.  She’s free, and come home to him alive.  “Oh Jyn…  Oh my dear…  I’m shaking.  Oh, my dearest…”

They are standing, holding one another, swaying slightly, rocking back and forth in one another’s arms.  Cassian presses smiling kisses onto her hair, her ear lobe, the side of her neck.  The staff sidle round them and carry on working.  No-one seems to mind.

Finally he feels strong enough to relax his grip a little.  Jyn bounces back, still on her toes, still beaming; but it’s too soon to part and he holds on; and she puts her hands up to his face and pulls him down into a long kiss on the mouth. 

At last, at last, they can be together for more than a few months. 

He kisses and kisses her, until they are both breathless, breaking apart and laughing like excited children.

“Sit down, have a drink, we need to celebrate.  Oh, darling, I still can’t believe it.”

A glass of wine, half of it downed in one go; a seat on the terrace, in the evening light, looking at Jyn in her new blouse; at the dark line of the thong she still wears round her neck, her mother’s necklace.  He imagines the crystal against her skin; thinks of the treasures Cantru brought him, and shivers. 

“So, what’s in the bag?” she asks, reading his thoughts again as she always seems to do.  It has become normal for them, over the years; time apart seems to fall away like dust as soon as they’re together, and their minds run side by side once more.  It’s strange and magical, and suddenly he sees another magic, another astonishment; because when she jumped and looked for him just now, when she knew that he was there and they were together again, this time, it can be forever. 

He takes another mouthful of wine.  “I met my old landlord.  He’d managed to salvage a couple of my old sketchbooks and – something else, something I never thought I’d see again.  Can I show you?” 

He takes the little bundle out of the bag and sets it on the table beside her glass, unties the string; two sketchbooks, a handful of folded sheets of paper, a small box.  Opens the first sketchbook, moves quickly to the second.

“That one’s from almost ten years ago, it’s really strange seeing the way I drew then.  Then this is the first one I bought when I came to Corellia; so that’s pretty weird, too, but at least I could draw by then.”  He’s laughing slightly at himself.  “I drew _everything_ , look –“ He flips through the pages, showing her drawings of the streets and the people, the view from his windows, his lamp and his kitchen unit and the plump Tooka-cat from the fourth floor sunning itself on the stairs.  There are faces he sketched on the city-trans, there are details of architecture, a pattern in a tiled floor, a posy of trefoil flowers on a café table somewhere, a vegetable stall, a carved doorway, a queue of shoppers at a fishmonger’s cart by the docks.  There’s the wooden fretwork of a gutter fascia, the curly-iron decoration of a bench in the park.  There are a series of pages devoted to the musicians and dancers filling the streets at the Spring Festival…

There are drawings from the life class he signed-up for in the hope of meeting other artists.  “Look – see anyone you recognise?”

Jyn is already staring.  She starts to laugh again.  “Is that Tiv in the background, peering over that easel?”

“Yes, it is.  I didn’t know his name; we didn’t start to talk for a couple of weeks.  I’d completely forgotten that I drew him that first session.  And look – look at the models –“

The models: Ashar-the-ass, a plumply beautiful young man who made eyes at everyone; and May.  Before he knew anything about her at all, even her name, much less her secret life, there she is, Major Mayneta Marwani of Alliance Intelligence, standing naked with her hands on her hips, lekku flung back casually, eyes looking out proudly over the heads of the classroom.  Her husband-to-be a shadowy figure behind, staring up at her already with rapt attention.

“You have to show them this,” Jyn says.  “They’re going to love it!”

He turns to the inside back cover to show her a quick scribble of a beer glass, half full.  It’s neatly dated, and captioned “Discovery!  Café Momus, Azul St, VG bar!!”  Jyn laughs.

“Your first drink here?”

“My first drink here.”

Cassian sets the book down slowly, closing the cover on all that youthful excitement.  It’s like holding his younger self, offering all his eagerness, his gauche passion and delight up for inspection.  He was half-moved and half-embarrassed earlier, sitting alone flipping through these pages; now he sees them again with Jyn and feels an astounded love for his own youth.  For the deliberate, accurate drawing style he had to shed so laboriously, and the naïveté and optimism and desperation of that boy who set off into the galaxy to try and find a life and a chance, to try and find beauty somewhere among the worlds.  Messed-up and alone, and both frightened and fearless at the same time.  _What a kid I was_ …

He presses Jyn’s hand for a moment.  She hasn’t teased him for a single thing in the two sketchbook, not even the clumsiest doodles.  He can trust her, has trusted her with everything, since that day when they trusted one another with the moment of their death she has been the most constant even when she could not be there.  She has always come back to him.  He wants to show her the miracle, though it still makes him shake to think of it.  The thing he hadn’t dared to hope for. 

He opens the box, and takes out the holo-cube inside.  “I never thought I’d see this again.  I used to keep it hidden in the back of my bedside drawer, I was so terrified of losing it.  I cannot imagine how Mr Cantru managed to find it.”  He activates the tiny display.  “It’s – it’s my family, Jyn.”

It’s a poor quality image, black-and-white, flickering, grainy and barely a hand-span high.  Jeron and Mariana Andor, holding their children’s hands, smiling a little embarrassedly at the photographer.  All of them wearing their festival-best; loose tunics and pants, embroidered vests, clean boots.  Bright flowers in Mamí’s hair buns.  Sofia was fidgeting with one of her plaits while he turned his head to look up at their Papa. 

The holo is set to loop.  They will repeat those few innocent seconds of their lives endlessly until he switches off the power again.  Forever together, forever awkward and happy and united.

He knows Jyn has only one holo of her own father, and not a happy one; knows she has none at all of her mother, has nothing from her except the necklace.  He switches off the precious image quickly; if it’s hard for him to watch, how much stranger and more painful must it be for her, knowing the equivalent can never be hers.  But “Your family,” she says instantly.  “Ah, please don’t put them away.  Can I look at them a bit longer?”  She moves her hand, and pushes the switch back on again.  He can see that she’s biting her lip, but she watches the twenty-five-year-old holo run round its little loop several times more, and there’s a small smile growing on her face.  “Wasn’t your Mama a beauty?  And such a handsome Papa!  Are you the little one?”

He finds there’s a knot of heat in his throat.  “Yes, that’s me, holding my father’s hand.”

Jyn switches it off again, leans in to kiss his cheek.  “Thank you for showing me this.”

He folds one hand gently over the cube and draws it close; puts it into his jacket pocket, where it will be near to his heart.  It is a small quiet joy to know Jyn has seen their faces now. 

He smiles at her and moves to the loose sheets of paper; slowly, carefully, unfolds them one by one.  He’s saved these for last, for her.  Three of his drawings from when they first met.

He has drawn her often since then.  For the last five years his sketchbooks have been full of agony and destruction, but interspersed through the pain are blocks of drawings of Jyn; Jyn doing anything, everything, nothing; Jyn reading, doing combat practice, eating a sandwich, sleeping curled on her side…  Any time they had together, he’s always tried to draw her at least once; daily, even many times a day when he could.  But these first sketches are something entirely different, recording not a familiar and loved life but the shock of a first meeting, of a new and unknown wonder.

“I’m sorry they’ve been creased,” he says after a moment, watching her as she studies them.

“No, it’s okay,” Jyn says.  “They’ve been through things.  They’ve got a past, just like us, now.”  She compares the first two sheets of flimsy carefully, holding them by the very margins of the page, one in each hand.  “I look so young!”

“Five years ago…”

Jyn smiles sideways at him, tenderly and with amusement.  “Also perhaps you were idealising me, just a scrap?”

“Perhaps a scrap,” he agrees, chuckling.

She sets the two figure studies down, picks up the third drawing.  It’s a portrait, full face; her expression soft and sad and lost and long ago, eyes gazing into the distance, out over that view of the square and the city that he loved so much. 

He’ll never sit in that studio again, and she’ll never look out of that window again.  Two people who barely knew one another made this drawing; and everything that has come since is their gift.

Jyn sighs. “It’s as if you saw me whole,” she says.  “And you saw me and didn’t see me, at the same time.  I was hiding so much from you and you didn’t see any of that at all.  But you saw a girl dreaming of things she had no hope of reaching.  And I didn’t even know I was her, but you saw her.” She sets the paper down again gently.  “I had no idea how alone I was, until I wasn’t, and there was you.”

She puts her hands over one of his, and he lays the other atop hers.  Jyn smiles at his touch.

“Your hands are so warm.  It’s always felt like coming home, having your hand in mine.”

They sit for a time like that, just holding hands and watching the thoughts in one another’s eyes.  A tuk-tuk goes by with its bells jingly quietly in the dusk.

“So,” Cassian says.  ”You got your discharge.”

“Bodhi got his, too.  He’s so pleased.  He’s going to join Master Chirrut and Master Baze, to volunteer with the Jedha Reconstruction Corps.”

“And K-2SO?”

“Believe it or not, K’s going too.  He refuses to be parted from Bodhi so he’s built up a detailed statistical analysis of why his presence will improve productivity in multiple ways.  It keeps him happy.”  She laughs for a second.  Then her face stills. “I don’t think any of them really expected to survive the war.  Any more than I did, sometimes…”

One of the waiting staff is bringing out candles in pierced tin holders; setting one on each table, lighting them with a small flick from a handheld burner.  She sets one down by his glass and lights it, moves on.  A soft glow spreads among the tables as she moves along the terrace.

Cassian sits looking at Jyn, at the face he knows better than any other in the galaxy.  Those thoughtful eyes, creased at their corners with smile lines, smudged as always with a tiny touch of kohl.  That determined mouth with its sweetly retroussé upper lip.  Little starburst edges of scar tissue at her hairline, very white in the shadows.  Her last deployment was to Mas Raebal, he knows that much and no more of it; hopes it was a mission that ended well, so that she can come away from the fighting with a clean memory to finish on, now that the war is won. 

The planet’s famously gentle sun has given her a faint touch of a tan. 

“You’re staring at me.”

“Not for the first time and not for the last.  I never get over looking at you.”

Her colours have more of gold in them now, and less of ivory, less of petal-white, though her lips are still like roses.  He would mix the same blue-green, the same colours of the sea for her eyes, if he were painting her now, would use such a rich palette for her hair, her skin, her strength...

He’ll have time, now, at last, to paint her again.  They will have time for everything, now. 

“Cassian, I’ve – I’ve done things I’m going to have to find a way to live with –“  Jyn sounds hesitant.  He knows and does not know what she’s seen and done; has seen too many such things himself.  Yet somehow he still knows it would have been worse never to have seen them. 

The war still came to Corellia, after all. In the end the shipyards were too important for it not to happen.  There was bombing here, and a blockade for over a year, there was terrible suffering and finally even fighting in the streets; there were hundreds more partisans who stood up, and died as bravely as Saw and his cadre.  He could have been killed here, sleeping in his little bedroom, still trying to imagine himself safe.  And he would never have known how he’d missed the chance to do real good in the world. 

He looks down at her hands clasped in his, her killing hands, the hands of his most absolute trust.  Hands that dragged him out of his shuttered life, pulled him out of safety and out of danger both.  Hands that have fired weapons and set trip-wires, have calibrated improvised explosive devices, clenched on truncheons; hands that have clawed through rubble, struggled to staunch the wounds of bleeding comrades, carried wounded fighters and terrified civilians to safety.  Jyn’s hands, like her face, a little more scarred than before but beautiful and brave beyond measure.

“There were days when I hated myself for just watching and drawing, when I knew should have been fighting,” he says softly.  “Sometimes when I looked at the fact that I would be pulled out along with the press, and people who had just as much right to live as me would stay behind and hold the enemy off while we were evacuated; and when I thought of that, I felt like a monster.  But in the end, you do what you have to do.  I’ve tried to do my best.  And so have you.  It won’t ever go away, any of it.  But we have so much to hope for, now.  We’ll find our way.” 

Jyn nods slowly. “You were the one who helped me see what hope could mean,” she says.  “What living could be like, what a world that wasn’t just fighting could be.  It’s strange to have lived through all this but I won’t be ashamed of it.  I’ll learn to live.  We’ve got a chance to make a world where all those good things can happen now, where people can have some beauty, where they don’t have to kill or be killed, or fight just to survive.  We can learn to do it together, can’t we, Cassian?”

Cassian remembers the night they met, the way she stared at his paintings and said only _This is so beautiful_ …  Remembers the holo she showed him once, a thin, unhappy man in Imperial uniform, saying _If you’re happy, Jyn, then that is more than enough_.  Thinks of Saw’s last words echoing in a darkened passageway _Promise me you will take care of her…_

Thinks of his parents, of everything they fought for and hoped for. 

He promises them all.  Whatever happens now, good and bad, be the road smooth or rough, be their days rich or poor, in good health or ill. They will take care of one another, and bring one another the beauty they can find, and the hope. 

“We can,” he says.  “We will.”  He leans in, to kiss her on the lips.  “Welcome home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that's the end of my story. This has been quite a ride and I know I will miss this AU dreadfully as I leave it behind. I've been honoured to travel alongside these characters, and honoured even more to have had the support and encouragement of so many people in this wonderful fandom community. Thank you very much for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Come and find me on tumblr, where (for complicated reasons) I'm imsfire2 !!


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